“Tres bien.  Are these boys with you?”

“Yes.”

“Then follow me.  We’re closing up the doctor’s house, but I’ll look after you.”

Without further ado we trudged on behind our guide, who after another hundred yards, turned into a gateway and led us up the stone steps of a sumptuous dwelling.  Opening the door, he lit the electric light and stepped into the vestibule.

“Come in,” he said.  “I’ll be back in a moment.”  And he disappeared.

There we stood, Leon, George and myself, waiting for something to happen, for someone to appear.  Five—­ten—­fifteen minutes must have elapsed—­still not a sound anywhere.  I was just beginning to wonder if we had not been the dupes of some practical joke, when from a room opening into the vestibule a light shone forth.  The curtains parted and our friend of the highroad appeared.

“Isn’t much—­but such as it is you’re welcome.  Sit down and make yourselves comfortable.”  And again he disappeared.

On a snowy white table cloth three covers were laid and a tempting supper composed of bread and butter, cheese, a bottle of white wine, and a huge basket of most luscious hothouse grapes and pears—­gladdened our hungry gaze.  We did not need a second invitation!  We fell to with a vengeance and at the end of a quarter-hour hardly a crumb remained.

“When you’ve finished, come upstairs; Madame will take the first door to the right.  You boys come up a flight higher,” called a voice from above.

We obeyed, and before retiring I waited a good half-hour hoping our friend would reappear.  But no one came—­so bolting my door, I offered up a prayer of thanks and was soon fast asleep.

Sunday morning, September sixth, the sun was high in the heavens when I peeped from beneath my lace-bordered sheets and cocked my ear at the familiar sound of the cannon.  It was a long continuous roar, and now that I had become accustomed to distancing I estimated that the battle was on at Mormont.  And I was not mistaken.  A little later official news confirmed my guess.

Finding no bell in my room, I opened the door to see a pitcher of hot water sitting before it, and on a chair beside it, a new comb, a clean linen duster, and a pocket handkerchief.  A brief note told me that I would find breakfast in the dining-room, and requested that I leave word on the table saying at what time I would be in for luncheon.  Decidedly the mystery deepened—­for not a sound could be heard save in the garden where I spied George and Leon, who informed me that the house was empty, and “a gorgeous house, Madame!” they ejaculated in admiration.

Though partially abandoned, Melun was full of life, thanks to the presence of numerous British troops and that same long line of A. S. C.’s now quadrupled on the highroad—­two lines going, two lines coming.

As I picked my way between them, and crossed the street, my attention was arrested by a French peasant who was conversing by means of the sign language with the handsome driver of one of those vans, while several children were clamoring to be allowed to sit on the seat a moment, “just to see how it seemed.”