Produced by Sean Pobuda
The third week in July found a very merry gathering at the Chateau deVilliers. (Villiers is our summer home situated near Marne River, sixtymiles or an hour by train to Paris.)
Nothing, I think, could have been farther from thoughts than the idea ofwar. Our May Wilson Preston, the artist; Mrs. Chase, the editor of awell-known woman's magazine; Hugues Delorme, the French artist; andnumerous other guests, discussed the theatre and the "Caillaux case"from every conceivable point of view, and their conversations were onlyinterrupted by serious attempts to prove their national superiority atbridge, and long delightful walks in the park.
As I look back now over those cheerful times, I can distinctly rememberone bright sunny morning, when after a half-hour's climbing we reachedthe highest spot on our property. Very warm and a trifle out of breathwe sought shelter beneath a big purple beech, and I can still hear H.explaining to Mrs. Chase:
"Below you on the right runs the Marne, and over there, beyond thosehills, do you see that long straight line of trees?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's the road that lead's from Paris to Metz!"
At that moment I'm confident he hadn't the slightest arriere pensee.
On Monday, the 27th, Mrs. Preston, having decided to take her leave, Idetermined to accompany her to Paris. Several members of the houseparty joined us, leaving H. and a half-dozen friends at Villiers. Wetook an early morning train, and wrapped in our newspapers we wererolling peacefully towards the capital when someone called out, "ForHeaven's sake, look at those funny soldiers!"
Glancing through the window, I caught sight of numerous gray-haired,bushy-bearded men stationed at even distances along the line, while hereand there little groups beneath or around a tent were preparing themorning meal.
What strange looking creatures they were; anything but military in theirdirty white overalls—the only things that betrayed their calling beingtheir caps and their guns!
"What on earth are they?" queried an American.
"Oh, only some territorials serving their last period of twenty-ninedays. It's not worth while giving them uniforms for so short a time!"
"Bah!" came from the other end of the compartment. "I should think itwas hot enough in the barracks without forcing men that age to mount aguard in the sun!"
"It's about time for the Grand manaeuvres, isn't it?"
And in like manner the conversation rose and dwindled, and we returnedto our papers, paying no more attention to the territorials stationedalong the rails.
A theatre party having been arranged, I decided to stop over in Paris.The play was Georgette Lemeunier at the Comedie Francaise. The housewas full—the audience chiefly composed of Americans and tourists, andthroughout the entire piece even very significant allusions to currentpolitical events failed to arouse any unwonted enthusiasm on the part ofthe French contingent. Outside not even an edition speciale de laPresse betokened the slightest uneasiness.
The next day, that is, Tuesday, the 28th, I had a business meeting withmy friends, Mr. Gautron and Mr. Pierre Mortier, editor of the GilBlas. Mr. Gautron was on the minute, but Mr. Mortier kept us waitingover an hour and when finally we had despaired of his coming