We waited long, and some hours went by.  A rumor went round that we should not go till the next day.  But suddenly there was silence, a stiffening up, and a military salute all round.  The door had just opened to admit Major de Trancheaux.

The women drew aside.  A civilian who was on the lookout for him went up, hat in hand, and spoke to him in undertones.

“But, my friend,” cried the Major, quitting the importunate with a quite military abruptness, “it’s not worth while.  In two months the war will be over!”

He came up to us.  He was wearing a white band on his cap.

“He’s in command at the station,” they say.

He gave us a patriotic address, brief and spirited.  He spoke of the great revenge so long awaited by French hearts, assured us that we should all be proud, later, to have lived in those hours, thrilled us all, and added, “Come, say good-by to your folks.  No more women now.  And let’s be off, for I’m going with you as far as the station.”

A last confused scrimmage—­with moist sounds of kisses and litanies of advice—­closed up in the great public hall.

When I had embraced Marie I joined these who were falling in near the road.  We went off in files of four.  All the causeways were garnished with people, because of us; and at that moment I felt a lofty emotion and a real thrill of glory.

At the corner of a street I saw Crillon and Marie, who had run on ahead to take their stand on our route.  They waved to me.

“Now, keep your peckers up, boys!  You’re not dead yet, eh!” Crillon called to us.

Marie was looking at me and could not speak.

“In step!  One-two!” cried Adjutant Marcassin, striding along the detachment.

We crossed our quarter as the day declined over it.  The countryman who was walking beside me shook his head and in the dusky immensity among the world of things we were leaving, with big regular steps, fused into one single step, he scattered wondering words.  “Frenzy, it is,” he murmured. “I haven’t had time to understand it yet.  And yet, you know, there are some that say, I understand; well, I’m telling you, that’s not possible.”

The station—­but we do not stop.  They have opened before us the long yellow barrier which is never opened.  They make us cross the labyrinth of hazy rails, and crowd us along a dark, covered platform between iron pillars.

And there, suddenly, we see that we are alone.

* * * * * *

The town—­and life—­are yonder, beyond that dismal plain of rails, paths, low buildings and mists which surrounds us to the end of sight.  A chilliness is edging in along with twilight, and falling on our perspiration and our enthusiasm.  We fidget and wait.  It goes gray, and then black.  The night comes to imprison us in its infinite narrowness.  We shiver and can see nothing more.  With difficulty I can make out, along our trampled platform, a dark flock, the buzz of voices, the smell of tobacco.  Here and there a match flame or the red point of a cigarette makes some face phosphorescent.  And we wait, unoccupied, and weary of waiting, until we sit down, close-pressed against each other, in the dark and the desert.