We didn’t go very near, as W. wasn’t quite sure how the horses would stand the bugle and firing.  They were already pulling hard, and getting a little nervous.  It was pretty to see the soldiers all mount when the bugle rang out, and in a moment the whole body was in motion.  The rush of the soldiers over the wide plains and the drawbridge looked irresistible—­the men swarmed down the bank and over the ditch—­one saw a confused mass of red trousers and kepis.  The cavalry came along very leisurely, guarding the rear.  I looked for the general.  He was standing with some of his staff on a small hill directing operations.  He did look stout and very red and warm; however, it was the last day, so his troubles were over for the present.

One of the officers saw us and came up to pay his respects; said they wouldn’t be back at the chateau until about five; perhaps the ladies would come to the stable-yard and see the pansage.  It was quite interesting; all the horses ranged in a semi-circle, men scrubbing and combing hard, the sous-officiers superintending, the officers standing about smoking and seeing that everything was being packed and ready for an early start the next morning.  I was astonished to see how small the horses were.  My English horse, also a chestnut, was not particularly big, but he looked a giant among the others.  They admired him very much, and one of the officers asked Hubert if he thought I would like to sell him.

Our dinner was again very pleasant, and we had more halma in the evening.  W. played once or twice, and as he was a fairly good player, the adversaries had no chance.  We broke up early, as they were to start again at some unearthly hour the next morning.  It seems they were very lively in the stables after dinner—­we heard sounds of merriment, singing, and choruses, and, I fancy, dancing.  However, it made quite a pleasant break in our summer, and the big place seemed quieter and lonelier than ever after such unusual animation.  W. said the war talk was much keener than the first day when they were smoking in the gallery; all the young ones so eager to earn their stripes, and so confident that the army had profited by its bitter experience during the Franco-German War.

* * * * *

Election day is always a very important day in France.  The village farmers and labourers put on their best clothes—­usually a black coat, silk hat and white shirt—­and take themselves solemnly to the Mairie where the voting takes place.  For weeks beforehand agents and lecturers come from Paris and bamboozle the simple village people with newspapers, money and wonderful promises.  It is astounding how easily the French peasant believes all that the political agents tell him and all that he reads in the cheap papers, for, as a rule—­taken en masse—­they are very intelligent and at the same time suspicious (mefiants), manage their own little affairs very well and are rarely taken in; but