Our major domo under the influence of the coin, or what he had procured at the vintner’s in exchange therefor, grew a bit playful.  He suddenly flung open the door and cried, “Steigen Sie auf.”  If I had comprehended his meaning involuntarily I would have obeyed, but luckily my brain has a slow shifting language gear.  By the time it began dawning upon me that we had been told to vacate the car Marie had fixed me with her eyes and gripped me like a vise with her hand so that I knew that I was to stay put.  One man involuntarily started and then checked himself.  He was so patently a Frenchman though that everybody laughed.  The major domo chuckled and marched away, much pleased with his playful humor.

At last, with much jolting, we started on our crawling journey.  Sometimes the snail-pace would be accelerated; our hopes would then expand, only to collapse again with a bang.  Again we would be sidetracked to let coal-cars, cattle cars and flat cars with guns go by.  Civilians were ciphers in the new order, and if it served any military purpose to dump us into the river, in we would have gone with no questions asked.  We sat about, a wilted and dispirited lot.  Occasionally some one would thrust his head out the window to observe progress.  He was generally rewarded by a view of the Eiffel Tower from a new angle, for it seemed that we were simply being shunted in and about and all around the city.

The most icy reserve must find itself cracked and thawing in the intimacies which a jerking railway car precipitates.  There is no dignity which is proof against a sound bump upon the head.  Thus our irritations and suspicions gave way to laughter, and laughter brings all the barriers down.  The compartment became a confessional.  The anxious looking man opposite was hoping to get to his estate and to bury a few of his most treasured things before the Germans came.  The two young fellows with scraggly beards were brothers, given five days’ leave to see a dying father; three days had been spent in a vain effort to get started there.  Another man had a half telegram which read, “Accident at home you------” Not another word had he been able to get through.  The silent young man in the corner smiled pleasantly when his turn came but volunteered no information.  I likewise passed.

Marie, wishing to fortify herself with all possible help in her venture, told her tale in full.  An immediate proffer came from the hitherto taciturn young man in the corner.  “Why, this is romance in earnest.  I do wish that I might be of some help,” he said with genuine interest.

Our new friend we found had for a grandfather no less a dignitary than Alexander Dumas.  His name he told us was Louis Dumas, an artist, not yet called to the colors, and bound now for Villeneuve, “and before we can really get acquainted, here we are,” he said as the train came to a stop.

As he stepped to the door it was flung open by an officer who shouted, “Everybody out!  This car is for the military.”  We protested.  We displayed our tickets.  The officer laughed and, seizing one reluctant passenger, dragged him out.  A quickly ejected and much dejected band, we found ourselves upon the street of a little outlying village nine miles from Paris.  It had taken half as many hours to get there.