In our excitement we had forgotten to take from the oven two handsome Pates de lievre of which I was more than duly proud.  And as Nini expressed it, they were burned to cinders.  How H. chuckled at our first domestic mishap.

“Fine cooks, you are,” said he, turning to Berthe and Nini, who hung their heads and blushed crimson.  “And it’s to you that I’m going to entrust Madame when I leave!”

Tuesday, the fourth, the drum rolled at an early hour and the garde-champetre announced the declaration of war.  It was not news to anyone, for all had considered the mobilization as the real thing.

We were breakfasting when we heard a strange rumbling up the road.  It was such a funny noise—­midway between that of a steam roller and a threshing machine—­that we both went out towards the lodge to see what was passing by.  We were not a little surprised on perceiving our gendarmes sitting in an antiquated motor, whose puffing and wheezing betokened its age.  They stopped when they saw us, and after exchanging greetings, laughingly poked fun at their vehicle—­far less imposing than their well-groomed horses, but the only thing that could cover between seventy and eighty miles a day!  From them we learned that the mobilization was being carried out in perfection, and in all their tours to outlying villages and hamlets not a single delinquent had been found —­not a single man was missing!  All had willingly answered the call to arms!

Between the excitement and all the work that had to be done at Villiers, time passed with phenomenal rapidity.  As yet we had had no occasion to perceive the lack of mail and daily papers, and though I had always had a sub-conscious feeling that H. would eventually receive his marching orders, it was rather a shock when they came.  Being in a frontier department he was called out earlier than expected.  And instead of being sent around-circuit way to reach his regiment south of Paris, he was ordered to gain Chateau Thierry at once, and there await instructions.

Of course I packed and unpacked his bag for the twentieth time since Sunday, in the hope of finding a tiny space to squeeze in one more useful article—­and then descending, I jumped into the cart and waited for him to join me.  In spite of the solemnity of the moment, I couldn’t help laughing when he appeared, for disdaining the immaculate costume I had carefully laid out, he had put on a most disreputable-looking pair of trousers, and an old paint-stained Norfolk jacket.  A faded flannel shirt and a silk bandanna tied about his throat completed this weird accoutrement, which was topped by a long-vizored cap and a dilapidated canvas gunny sack, the latter but half full and slung lightly over one shoulder.  Anticipating my question, he explained that it was useless to throw away a perfectly new suit of clothes.  When he should receive his uniform, his civilian outfit ought to be put in safe keeping for his return.  This was customary in time of peace, but who could tell?—­he might never even get a uniform, let alone hoping to see the clothes again.