It is a fine, sunny day. There are crowds of people in front of the station--men of every description, most of them wearing caps, but no shirt-collar, some with _musettes_[1] slung over the shoulder, others carrying a valise. A few belonging to the ranks are wearing uniforms quite out of date. Any amount of bustle and noise but no shrieks. Those who stay behind remain with cheeks glued to the iron railings, their eyes fixed on some particular individual until he is out of sight. On the platform I come across Verrier, a friend I have known all my life: at school, in the Latin Quarter, and during my military service. He is a tall, light-complexioned fellow, thin and pallid, very cool and self-possessed. We find that we are both to be sent to the same depot. As there are some seats unoccupied in a second-class carriage, we quickly take possession of them, delighted at the prospect of travelling elsewhere than on the floor. The train begins to move. We look at each other. "This time things are serious," remarks Verrier. Indeed, we have something more to think of than passing exams, at school or college, or being reviewed by the colonel. We spring to the window like the rest and shout out, "Vive la France!" Henceforward all our thoughts must be directed towards peace--peace along the path of victory. Our compartment is stiflingly hot. There are eight of us, belonging to every division of the service: artillery, cavalry, and infantry. Plunged suddenly into military life, we revive old memories and listen to interminable stories of stern adjutants and good-natured captains. A spirit of cordiality is immediately set up and at the same time a special brand of courtesy, for you have no idea to whom you may be talking; it is quite likely that the man in front of you will to-morrow be your corporal or your sergeant. Every one of us is determined to do his duty; this is so manifestly taken for granted that no one mentions the matter. William II comes in for severe criticism. "The whole thing's impossible. The Germans themselves will rise in revolt." "They will do nothing of the kind," interrupts one who has lived in Germany. "They will do their best to kill us all." "Whether they rise in revolt or not, they have Russia and England to deal with, and we also intend to do our share." General approval. No one doubts but that the victory will be speedy--within three months, or before Christmas at the latest. Provisions are distributed; we eat and drink. Toasts are passed. The train rumbles gently along; by noon we have only reached Villiers-sur-Marne. Along the whole length of the line stand people waving their handkerchiefs and wishing us good luck.