Without offering any explanation I rode ahead and told Leon to follow
me. Then turning abruptly to the right, I took the first side path that
was wide enough for our cart wheels, and in and out, up and down, we
followed it for over an hour, until coasting down a steep incline, I
found myself in the midst of a delightful little village, nestled
between two hills on the border of a river.

The shops were just opening and people were going about their work as if
nothing unusual were happening. They gazed in astonishment at this
hatless bicyclist, who wore a Red Cross armlet, and when I went into the
baker shop, I was filled with joy at the sight of all the crisp loaves
lined up in their racks ready for delivery.

Refugees?

They hadn't seen any. Someone had heard an unaccustomed movement of
wagons during the night, that was all.

A signpost, as I turned into the square, told me that I was at
Jouy-sur-Morin, and a few moments later, I came upon a group of
gentlemen in frock coats standing talking on an embankment below the
church. If it had been in the afternoon instead of five A. M., I should
have thought this assembly perfectly in harmony with the landscape. In
fact they looked so much like H.'s caricatures of his provincial
compatriots that I couldn't help smiling as I passed. This mutational
gathering of the municipal council was the only outward sign of anxiety
to be found in this picturesque township.

The arrival of our caravan produced quite a sensation among the early
risers at Jouy, thought the enthusiasm for telling their story had