soldiers--a boy, I believe--so they set fire to the houses. One could
only look and hate and pray as their soldiers passed through, looking
so unconquerable, making all seem so terrible for France. Was it to
be '70 over again? One's heart was of stone, monsieur. Tiens! They
came back faster than they went. A mitrailleuse was down there at
the end of the street, our mitrailleuse! The bullets went cracking by.
They crack, the bullets; they do not whistle like the stories say. Then
the street was empty of Germans who could run. The dead they
could not run, nor the wounded. Then the French came up the street,
running too--running after the Germans. It was good, monsieur, good,
good! My heart was not of stone then, monsieur. It could not beat fast
enough for happiness. It was the heart of a girl. I remember it all very
clearly. I always shall, monsieur."

"Allons!" said our statesman. "The officer is well cared for."

The world seemed normal again as we passed through other towns
unharmed and swept by the dark countryside, till a red light rose in
our path and a sharp "Qui vive?" came out of the night as we slowed
down. This was not the only sentry call from a French Territorial in
front of a barricade.

At a second halt we found a chain as well as a barricade across the
road. For a moment it seemed that even the suave parliamentarism
of our statesman and the authority of our general and our passes
could not convince one grizzled reservist, doing his duty for France at
the rear whilst the young men were at the front, that we had any right
to be going into Paris at that hour of the night. The password, which
was "Paris," helped, and we felt it a most appropriate password as we
came to the broad streets of the city that was safe.