“We will make inquiries,” said our kindly general.

A man who came out of the gloom said that there was a hospital kept by some Sisters of Charity in Senlis which had escaped destruction.  The question was put into the recesses of the ambulance: 

“Would you prefer to spend the night here and go on in the morning?”

“Yes, monsieur, I—­should—­like—­that—­better!” The tone left no doubt of the relief that the journey in a car with poor springs was not to be continued after hours of waiting, marooned in the street of a ruined town.

Whilst the ambulance passed inside the hospital gate, I spoke with an elderly woman who came to a near-by door.  Cool and definite she was as a French soldier, bringing home the character of the women of France which this war has made so well known to the world.

“Were you here during the fighting?”

“Yes, monsieur, and during the shelling and the burning.  The shelling was not enough.  The Germans said that someone fired on their soldiers—­a boy, I believe—­so they set fire to the houses.  One could only look and hate and pray as their soldiers passed through, looking so unconquerable, making all seem so terrible for France.  Was it to be ’70 over again?  One’s heart was of stone, monsieur.  Tiens!  They came back faster than they went.  A mitrailleuse was down there at the end of the street, our mitrailleuse!  The bullets went cracking by.  They crack, the bullets; they do not whistle like the stories say.  Then the street was empty of Germans who could run.  The dead they could not run, nor the wounded.  Then the French came up the street, running too—­running after the Germans.  It was good, monsieur, good, good!  My heart was not of stone then, monsieur.  It could not beat fast enough for happiness.  It was the heart of a girl.  I remember it all very clearly.  I always shall, monsieur.”

“Allons!” said our statesman.  “The officer is well cared for.”

The world seemed normal again as we passed through other towns unharmed and swept by the dark countryside, till a red light rose in our path and a sharp “Qui vive?” came out of the night as we slowed down.  This was not the only sentry call from a French Territorial in front of a barricade.

At a second halt we found a chain as well as a barricade across the road.  For a moment it seemed that even the suave parliamentarism of our statesman and the authority of our general and our passes could not convince one grizzled reservist, doing his duty for France at the rear whilst the young men were at the front, that we had any right to be going into Paris at that hour of the night.  The password, which was “Paris,” helped, and we felt it a most appropriate password as we came to the broad streets of the city that was safe.