As they were herded on the platform a low, strangled kind of moaning
went up. I watched individual lips to see where the sound came from.
I caught no movement. The noise was the sighing of tired animals.
Every one had some treasured possession. Here was an old man with
an alarm-clock; there an aged woman with an empty bird-cage. A boy
carried half-a-dozen sauce-pans strung together. Another had a spare
pair of patched boots under his arm. Quite a lot of them clutched a
bundle of umbrellas. I found myself reflecting that these were the
remnants of families who had been robbed of everything that they
valued in the world. Whatever they had saved from the ruin ought to
represent the possession which had claimed most of their affections,
and yet--! What did an alarm-clock, an empty bird-cage, a pair of
patched boots, a string of sauce-pans, a bundle of ragged umbrellas
signify in any life? What utter poverty, if these were the best that
they could save!

There was a band on the platform, consisting mainly of bugles and
drums, to welcome them. The leader is reputed to be the laziest man
in the French Army. It is said that they tried him at everything and
then, in despair, sent him to Evian to drum forgotten happiness into
the bones of repatriés. Whatever his former military record, he now
does his utmost to impersonate the defiant and impassioned soul of
France. His moustaches are curled fiercely. His brows are heavy as
thunderclouds. When he drums, the veins swell out in his neck with the
violence of his energy.

Suddenly, with an ominous preliminary rumble, the band struck up
the Marseillaise. You should have seen the change in this crowd
of corpses. You must remember that these people had been so long