fellows were fighting and reaping all the glory. Station after station
we passed; bridges, level crossings, tunnels. Everywhere I saw
soldiers guarding the line and the bayonets of the old chassepôts
glinting in the starlight. Now and again the train would suddenly pull
up for some mysterious reason. The three horses, frightened at being
brought into collision with each other, made the van echo to the
thunder of their hoofs as they slipped, stamped, and recovered their
balance. I got up to calm them with soothing words and caresses. By
the light of the wretched lantern swinging and creaking above the door
I could see their three heads, with pricked ears and uneasy eyes. They
were breathing hard and could not understand why they had been brought
away from their comfortable stable with its thick litter of clean
straw. _They_ were not thinking about the war, but they seemed to
understand that their good times were over, that they would have to
resign themselves to all sorts of discomforts, march unceasingly, pass
nights in camps under the pouring rain, keep their heavy equipment on
their backs for many days together, and not always get food when they
were hungry.

Then the train would set off again with a noise of tightened couplings
and creaking waggons. Whilst I was mechanically looking out at the
darkness, dotted here and there with the coloured lights of the
signals placed along the line, my straying thoughts would wander to
the fields of battle and try to picture the scene on my arrival at the
Front.

It was the 28th of August, nearly a month after the order had been
given for mobilisation. And the armies had been fighting for some days
already. What had happened? We could only glean part of the truth from
the short official announcements. We knew there had been hard fighting