automobiles with the occupants crowded in among bundles done up in
sheets; there were women pushing overloaded handcarts; there were women
pushing baby-carriages; there were dogs and cats, and goats; there was
every sort of a vehicle you ever saw, drawn by every sort of beast that
can draw, from dogs to oxen, from boys to donkeys. Here and there was
a man on horseback, riding along the line, trying to keep it moving in
order and to encourage the weary. Every one was calm and silent. There
was no talking, no complaining.

The whole road was, however, blocked, and, even had our donkey wished
to pass,--which she did not,--we could not. We simply fell into the
procession, as soon as we found a place. Amelie and I did not say a
word to each other until we reached the road that turns off to the
Chateau de Conde; but I did speak to a man on horseback, who proved to
be the intendant of one of the chateaux at Daumartin, and with another
who was the mayor. I simply asked from where these people had come, and
was told that they were evacuating Daumartin and all the towns on the
plain between there and Meaux, which meant that Monthyon, Neufmortier,
Penchard, Chauconin, Barcy, Chambry,--in fact, all the villages visible
from my garden were being evacuated by order of the military powers.

One of the most disquieting things about this was to see the effect of
the procession as it passed along the road. All the way from Esbly to
Montry people began to pack at once, and the speed with which they fell
into the procession was disconcerting.

When we finally escaped from the crowd into the poplar-shaded avenue
which leads to the Chateau de Conde, I turned to look at Amelie for the
first time. I had had time to get a good hold of myself.
"Well, Amelie?" I said.