We met Elsa at the Gare de l’Est in Paris the evening after our arrival. Brand’s nervous anxiety had increased as the hour drew near, and he smoked cigarette after cigarette while he paced up and down the _Salle d’Attente_ as far as he could for the crowds which surged there. Once he spoke to me about his apprehensions. “I hope to God this will work out all right.... I’m only thinking of her happiness.” Another time he said: “This French crowd would tear her to pieces if they knew she was German.” While we were waiting we met a friend of old times. I was first to recognise Pierre Nesle, who had been attached to us as interpreter and _liaison_ officer. He was in civil clothes and was wearing a bowler hat and a light overcoat, so that his transformation was astonishing. I touched him on the arm as he made his way quickly through the crowd, and he turned sharply and stared at me as though he could not place me at all. Then a look of recognition leapt into his eyes and he grasped both my hands delightedly. He was still thin and pale, but some of his old melancholy had gone out of his eyes and in its place there was an eager, purposeful look. “Here’s Brand,” I said. “He’ll be glad to see you again.” “_Quelle chance!_” exclaimed Pierre, and he made a dash for his friend and before Brand could remonstrate kissed him on both cheeks. They had been good comrades and after the rescue of Marthe from the mob in Lille it was to Brand that Pierre Nesle had opened his heart and revealed his agony. He could not stay long with us in the station as he was going to some political meeting, and perhaps it was well, because Brand was naturally anxious to escape from him before Elsa came. “I am working hard--speaking, writing, organising--on behalf of the _Ligue des Tranchées_,” said Pierre. “You must come and see me at my office. It’s the headquarters of the new movement in France. Anti-militarist, to fulfil the ideals of the men who fought to end war.” “You’re going to fight against heavy odds,” said Brand. “Clemenceau won’t love you, nor those who like his peace.” Pierre laughed and used an old watchword of the war. “_Nous les aurons!_ Those old dead-heads belong to the past. Peace has still to be made by the men who fought for a new world.” He gave us his address, pledged us to call on him, and slipped into the vortex of the crowd.