During the train’s long wait, soldiers only were seen on the platform, soldiers who were hastening at the call of the trumpet, to take their places again in the strings of cars which were constantly steaming toward Paris.  At the signal stations, long war trains were waiting for the road to be clear that they might continue their journey.  The cuirassiers, wearing a yellow vest over their steel breastplate, were seated with hanging legs in the doorways of the stable cars, from whose interior came repeated neighing.  Upon the flat cars were rows of gun carriages.  The slender throats of the cannon of ’75 were pointed upwards like telescopes.

Young Desnoyers passed the night in the aisle, seated on a valise, noting the sodden sleep of those around him, worn out by weariness and exhaustion.  It was a cruel and endless night of jerks, shrieks and stops punctuated by snores.  At every station, the trumpets were sounding precipitously as though the enemy were right upon them.  The soldiers from the South were hurrying to their posts, and at brief intervals another detachment of men was dragged along the rails toward Paris.  They all appeared gay, and anxious to reach the scene of slaughter as soon as possible.  Many were regretting the delays, fearing that they might arrive too late.  Leaning out of the window, Julio heard the dialogues and shouts on the platforms impregnated with the acrid odor of men and mules.  All were evincing an unquenchable confidence.  “The Boches! very numerous, with huge cannons, with many mitrailleuse . . . but we only have to charge with our bayonets to make them run like rabbits!”

The attitude of those going to meet death was in sharp contrast to the panic and doubt of those who were deserting Paris.  An old and much-decorated gentleman, type of a jubilee functionary, kept questioning Desnoyers whenever the train started on again—­“Do you believe that they will get as far as Tours?” Before receiving his reply, he would fall asleep.  Brutish sleep was marching down the aisles with leaden feet.  At every junction, the old man would start up and suddenly ask, “Do you believe that we will get as far as Bordeaux?” . . .  And his great desire not to halt until, with his family, he had reached an absolutely secure refuge, made him accept as oracles all the vague responses.

At daybreak, they saw the Territorialists guarding the roads.  They were armed with old muskets, and were wearing the red kepis as their only military distinction.  They were following the opposite course of the military trains.

In the station at Bordeaux, the civilian crowds struggling to get out or to enter other cars, were mingling with the troops.  The trumpets were incessantly sounding their brazen notes, calling the soldiers together.  Many were men of darkest coloring, natives with wide gray breeches and red caps above their black or bronzed faces.