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I cannot believe it will come to anything. I heard a rumor that the cards of mobilization were out, but I could not credit it." "Father has gone," I murmured. "But he will come back, my child!" And she was still insisting that the war was impossible, when Madame Paul Barton, with little Jacques, her son, and her daughter Heloise, came in to see us.

"Oh, Jeannette!" Madame Barton half-sobbed as she caught sight of me, "there is an empty place in our house, too!" She took me in her arms and kissed

me.

"The women of France must manage alone now," she added.

"But it is incredible that we should have war," Madame Garnier began again, while I ran to Heloise, my best friend.

Heloise is fifteen, that is to say, just my age, and we have shared our little secrets since we were able to whisper them to each other. She is so pretty and so sweet, and now her papa has gone, too! We embraced, and I was near to tears for the first time.

"Oh, Jeannette," she murmured in my ear, "it is dreadful, this war!"

Heloise and I fell silent, listening to Madame Garnier still insisting something would save us from the war. Madame Barton did not share this view, though she was quick to hope that Madame Garnier might be right. We all tried to talk cheerfully, but now and then there would come sudden pauses in the conversation, and it was in one of these that we heard the voice of little Jacques talking to Grandpère.

"And you know, Colonel de Martigny," he was saying, his eyes sparkling and his slender figure as straight as an arrow, "soon I shall be a soldier and fight for France!"

With a stifled exclamation of pain, Madame Barton went swiftly to her son and took him in her arms. I think her heart was too tender just then to suffer the thought of her boy being taken from her; and somehow, after that, we found little to say to one another.

Presently my good friends went home, promising to see me on the morrow, and I was left alone with Grandpère.

"A fine lad, the little Jacques," he re

"Yes, yes, but as yet I do not under- peated to himself softly. "A fine lad, stand."

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"Nor to me. But it will be sad and many will die," I answered, with a shake of my head.

"Yes, that is so," she agreed gravely; and then, her face lighting a little, "but I do not fear for my papa. I am sure he will be spared."

And at this remark I realized that like Heloise, I, too, was sure my papa would live to come back to me. I was very sure of this. I could not believe that anything would happen to him; but of Monsieur Barton I was not so sure. I found myself much more anxious on Heloise's account than on my own, and I know now that, in the early days, each of us in France was brave in the confidence that death would spare the one we loved the best.

who will make a fine soldier some day."

"It 's time for bed, Grandpère," I said, putting an arm about his shoulder, for I loved him very dearly.

"Is it, indeed, time?" he questioned, with a glance at the clock. "Perhaps, perhaps," he murmured. "But where is Louis?"

It was of his son, my papa, he asked.
"He has gone to the war, Grandpère,"

I answered, wondering if he would comprehend.

He looked at me quizzically for a moment, then slowly shook his head.

"The war is over, my dear," he said, very gently, as if talking to a little child. "It is all over. The army has surrendered at Sedan, and our poor, poor France is beaten!" Then, with a sudden strengthening of his voice, “A bas Bismarck!"

In that short sentence he seemed to express all the scorn and loathing he felt for those bitter enemies of France across the Rhine. The pain he had suffered at their

hands when he was a young man had left its mark so deeply printed upon his brain that he had understood nothing of what had happened in the world since that "année terrible," forty-four years before.

Once more les barbares were battering at the gates of France. Incredible though it was, war had come again; but as yet I had no measure of its meaning.

CHAPTER II.

"La Marseillaise"

On the morrow Grandpère and I went out for our usual walk. It was our habit to visit the cathedral first; we never tired of gazing up at it, and often we stepped within to say a prayer; then on to the Faubourg Céres to sit for an hour or so under the trees in the park.

On other mornings we should have found few people upon the streets, for the August sun was hot; but it was soon plain that a great change had come over the old city of Rheims. There were many abroad, all moving hurriedly and breathlessly.

As we approached the cathedral, along the rue Libergier, there came the beat of marching men, singing as they marched. At the sound of their voices Grandpère halted, straightened his old shoulders, and saluted, soldier-fashion, while into my heart there came the first throb of that deep pain which was to abide there and become a part and parcel of my daily life.

We moved on with the thickening crowd into the Place du Parvis. Above us rose the towers of the cathedral, and before the great doorway stood the bronze figure of Jeanne d'Arc upon her horse. There she sat, the gentle patron saint of soldiers, as a regiment of infantry marched into the square. They swung past the statue, saluting as they wentand oh, how brave they looked in their scarlet-faced blue coats and kepis decked with flowers! The August sun flashed on the rifle-barrels, and their red trousers made a fine show, filling the way with color as on a gala day.

But there was no joy in the faces of the men, though here and there one laughed.

recklessly as if to prove his courage. For the most part these soldiers of France gazed ahead. In their eyes I read a determination to meet whatever Fate held in store for them, a resolve to go through with this grim business, come what might.

At first I saw but a blur of features as they passed, and then, with a shock, I recognized Pierre, our butcher's boy, bearing a rifle with the best of them. Yesterday he had been dressed in a white apron, and whistled gaily as he carried his basket from house to house. To-day he was a soldier, this little Pierre, the butcher's boy. A moment later came one of our school teachers, leaving behind him a good wife and three small children. Farther on, I caught sight of the assistant to Monsieur Cartier, the apothecary, a pale young man, whose uniform seemed much to big for him and hung in folds about his narrow chest. One after another I discovered the familiar faces of those whose lives I touched lightly day by day; but now they had found a warm place in my heart. Of a sudden these scarcely known friends. had grown dear to me and their fortunes became of great importance.

Yet at the moment I was scarcely conscious of what I saw. My soul was filled with what I heard, for as the soldiers marched they sang the "Marseillaise," not as I had heard it sung hundreds of times before, but with a new meaning, as if the words themselves had become alive.

"Allons, enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé.
Contre nous de la tyrannie
L'étandard sanglant est levé."

Now, indeed, were the children of France called to battle against the tyrant! The day had come! The men sang, not with joy in their voices, not with gladness nor with homage to the land they loved; but with a deep-throated chant of challenge.

"Entendez-vous, dans les campagnes,
Mugir ces feroces soldats?
Ils viennent jusque dans nos bras
Egorger nos fils, nos compagnes!"

It seemed that already these men had heard the shouts of our fierce enemies who were flying toward us intent upon killing the sons of France.

"Aux armes, citoyens!"

The cry came crisp and sharp, as a thousand men lifted their voices, marching to the beat of it.

"To arms, citizens!"

And they had answered; from city and hamlet; from farm and factory; from the black depths of mines and the glittering shops of Paris, the citizens of France had answered. The whole land was ringing with the "Marseillaise," but it was no longer a song to be sung with glad hearts at the end of a happy day. No, no! It was a sober call to arms. It was the anthem of a nation which, living and wanting to live in peace, had, without warning, been struck at, with all the menace of a brutal people who would, if they could, kill the soul of France and make her sons their slaves.

"To arms, citizens!"

And here were the citizens in their scarlet trousers and blue coats, marching! The old men, the women and children, stood looking with white faces as sons and fathers marched on. It was not for us to join that chorus-we who watched. The grim reality struck like iron into our hearts. We could but abide, mute and trembling, while the call was raised. to those who must bear the heavy burden.

"Marchons! Marchons!"

To what? To what were they marching, these brave citizen soldiers? Many to death, all to bitter suffering, hardship, and unknown terror. But they marched! But they marched! The sons of France strode on, chanting the "Marseillaise" which had become once more what it had been at first, a battle hymn. It was no longer a song but a

summons.

The last of the regiment filed past, and their voices grew more and more distant as they turned toward the rue

de Vesle on their way to the railroad station to depart, we knew not whither.

Now at last I had begun to understand. That growing fear, with which I think the children of France are born; the constant threat of a brutal people near us; the uneasiness of living side by side with overbearing, ill-mannered neighbors we could not trust; these things had become a part of us, and the time had arrived when they must be forever banished. War had come! The citizens of the French Republic were marching to the front, to die by thousands that there might be peace in the world for all time. It was plain enough now, even to me, a child. Heartsick with dread, I, and hundreds about me, stood listening with straining ears to catch the last sound.

High above us rose the lofty towers of the cathedral, pointing to the blue arch of a cloudless sky. Like a calm sentinel before them stood the statue of Jeanne d'Arc, her gentle eyes lifted to Heaven, as if bidding us look up. In her right hand she held a sword, not raised in a gesture of warlike defiance, but rather as if she begged a blessing upon a weapon newly unsheathed in the defence of the dear country she so loved. From afar came faintly the brave words of our holy hymn, sung with high courage and high resolve: resolve: "Marchons! Marchons!"

CHAPTER III

ADIEU ET AU REVOIR

AFTER an interval of tense silence, the crowd began to move toward the railroad station. I knew what that meant-instantly my thoughts flew to my papa.

"We must go home at once, Grandpère!" I said, taking him by the arm, for it would be impossible to guide him through the press of people who would gather to say good-by to those they loved.

Having left him with Eugénie, I hurried to the Gare des Voyageurs, where our men were to entrain.

As I had expected, the place was thronged with soldiers, their wives and children. Looking at their faces in my

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"It is for the country-my duty. I shall come back to you. Courage, ma mignonne!" How many hundred times, I wonder, did I hear those words that day, said hopelessly, said recklessly, said bravely?

I saw Papa at last, and elbowed my way through the press to his side.

"Ah, my little Jeannette!" he cried, greeting me tenderly. He smiled; but as he looked down into my eyes I saw in his the shadow he wished to hide. In mine he must have read the struggle I had to keep them dry of tears.

"My brave girl!" he murmured, patting my shoulder with a loving hand; "I shall soon come back to thee and the good Grandpère."

Presently we discussed the household affairs, the ways and means of carrying on our home while he was away; but we talked hurriedly, jerking out a sentence now and then, with long pauses in between, as people do whose thoughts are only half concerned with the things they speak of. How could I consider anything else when my dear Papa was about to leave me upon so grim an errand? That he would return, I dared not trust myself to doubt.

So we stood among that patient, anxious crowd of people, who waited the signal to start the trains upon their fateful journey. Hundreds of good-bys were to be said that would be final; and yet there were no tears. After all, to save France was no trivial matter to whimper

over.

An Englishman, pushing his way through the dense throng, came near us, and Papa spoke to him eagerly.

"Monsieur, how is it with your countrymen? Will they join us?"

"Without doubt, England will come in," he answered; and a shout of joy went up from those who had heard.

"Comrade!" cried Father, with outstretched hand. The two gripped hands and looked into each other's eyes for a moment.

It was in the eyes that one read resolution and courage. Words came haltingly and seemed to have lost their mean

ing. A hand-grasp a rough pat on the shoulder-a long look, eye to eye-a common language all might understand had taken the place of talk.

For the most part there was no hint of gaiety in that crowd. Once or twice a soldier laughed hysterically, and in a loud voice vowed we should make the Boche run for it when we met; but there was no encouragement of reckless boasting. It was a stern, sober gathering of the people of France who, though they might be confident of the outcome, realized the heavy task ahead and were brave to meet it. To this day I do not know how long we remained awaiting the signal that was to take away those we so dearly loved; but it came suddenly, like an unexpected blow.

"Alors, il faut dire adieu." ["We must say adieu."]

The words were all about us as Father took me in his arms.

AND a little later I was alone among the women and children, staring at the long train pulling slowly out of the station.

"Bonne chance! Bonne chance!”

We cried good luck after them, forcing the words through throats choked with tears.

"Vive la France!"

Till those we loved were out of sight, we strove to play our part, lifting our voices to give the shout a ring of sturdy

courage.

We watched the train moving at a snail's pace at first, yet still moving whither we knew not, and gradually gathering speed until the last car flashed past. They were gone! We gazed after till the tears blurred our eyes.

"Vive la France!"

Our final salute came hoarsely, and trailed off into a moan of deep despair. Those we loved best were hastening away to the place of danger!

With a sob I turned, and, scarcely knowing in what direction I went, found myself presently before the gray doors of our great cathedral. Nor was I alone.

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