“Well, then, all ready for the expedition?” I said, masking my pessimism with a smile.

For reply she handed this note which read: 

“Dear Marie:  I have been transferred from Corbeille to Melun.  It makes me ill to be getting ever farther and farther away.—­Robert.”

With the river trip cancelled, life looked more roseate to me.  “And now we can’t go after all,” I said, mustering this time the appearance of sadness.

“Oh, don’t look so relieved,” she laughed, “because we’re going anyhow.”

“But what’s the use?  He has gone.”

“Well, we are going where he has gone, that’s all,” she retorted.

I pointed out the facts that only military trains were running to Melun; that we weren’t soldiers; that the river was out of the question; that we had no aeroplane and that we couldn’t go overland in a canoe.

“But we can with our wits,” Marie added.

I explained how lame my wits were in French, and that two consecutive sentences would bring on trial for high treason to the language.

“Oh, but you don’t furnish the wits,” Marie retorted.  “You just furnish the body.”

In her plan of campaign I gathered that I was to act as a kind of convoy, from which she was to dart forth, torpedoing all obstacles.  I was quite confident of her torpedoing ability but not of my fitness to play a star part as a dour and fear-inspiring background.  She packed her bag and presently we were making our way to the station through a blighted city.

At the Gare du Nord a cordon of soldiers had been thrown about the station; crowds surged up against the gates, a few frantically pleading and even crying to get through.  The guards, to every plea and threat returned a harsh “C’est impossible.”  Undaunted by the despair of others, she looked straight into the eyes of the somber gate-keeper and, with every art, told the story of Robert le Marchand, brave young officer of France; of his American girl and his deep longing for her.  When she had stirred this lethargic functionary into a show of interest in this girl, with a revealing gesture she said:  “And here she is; please, Monsieur, let me go.”  “Ah, Mademoiselle, I would like to,” he replied, “but are not all the soldiers of France longing for wives and sweethearts!  Mon Dieu! if they all rode there would be no room for the militaire.  The Boches would take us in the midst of our farewells.  There is never any end to leave-takings.”

“But, Monsieur, I did not have one good-by.”

“No, Mademoiselle.  C’est impossible.”

The guardian of the second gate took her plea in a way that did more credit to his heart than to his knowledge of geography.  He thought (and we made no effort to disillusionize him) that she had come all the way from America since the outbreak of war.  It nearly moved him to tears.  Was he surrendering?  Almost.  But recovering his official negative head-shake and trusting not to words, he fell back upon the formula:  “No, Madame, c’est impossible.”