"No, no," she shook her head. "But do you think I haven't thought of it?
I keep thinking, 'We can't stay here for ever. Some end will come.' And
then--'It will come this way. The Grand Quartier will go.'"

"But you are going with it."

"Julien! Is that true?"

"Certain. It was settled to-day. We are actually leaving in three days
for Chantilly; and you, with all the garage, all the drivers, and the
offices of the 'C.R.A.' are to be at Precy-sur-Oise, five miles away."

"But you are at Precy too?"

"No, I have to be at Chantilly. And worse than that ... The bridge over
the Oise at Precy is blown up and all cars have to come sixteen miles
round to Chantilly by another bridge. I am in despair about it. I have
tried every means to get Dormans to fix upon another village, but he is
obstinate, and Precy it must be for you, and Chantilly for me. But don't
let's think of it now. Wait till you've eaten and are warm, and we can
plan. Here are the gates!"

He handed out the paper pass as a red light waved to and from upon the
snow. First the Customs-men, Germans still, in their ancient civic
uniform. "Nothing to declare?" Then the little soldier with the lantern
in his hand: "Your pass, _ma belle!_" As he caught sight of Julien,
"Pardon, mademoiselle!" Lastly, up the long road into the open square by
the station, down the narrow street, splashing the melted snow-water
against the shop windows, and under the shadow of the cathedral.