A comrade receives a letter from his mother telling him of the possible entry of the Germans into Paris. Most improbable; how are we to believe such a thing? And yet the terms of the letter are most distinct and detailed. By common consent we leave this subject of conversation and begin to speak of the Russian victories. _Tuesday, 8th September._ We now form part of a detachment of five hundred men with our friend Roberty in command. We shall proceed to the front either this evening or to-morrow. This morning an engine-driver told us at the station that in the neighbourhood of Reims the French have made great hecatombs of Germans. He saw the corpses heaped up in piles. One piece of good news at all events. I take my leave of the Girardot family; we shake hands and drink healths. Then I fondle and caress the huge dog, the _chien à sonnettes_, whose bell gives forth a more melancholy tinkle than ever. The campaign at Humes is ended. CHAPTER IV EN ROUTE _Wednesday, 9th September._ The order to leave came this evening. Our detachment is to join up with the 352nd. Final preparations: all the tins of preserves we had piled up in Girardot's loft are divided out amongst the men of the squadron; these tins--_foies gras_, tongue, knuckle of ham, corned beef--are called _Rimailhos_, because of their calibre. At seven in the morning we leave Humes. The entire depot is present, and the people of the district bring us flowers with which we adorn our rifles. Roll-call. A short address by the commander of the depot. Shouts of "Vive la France!" _En route_ as we thunder forth the _Marseillaise_. At Langres station we pile up our rifles. A few innocent fellows scribble postcards, whilst we poke fun at them. "Do you mean to say you're writing? You know it will never reach its destination!" There is a sense of satisfaction, however, in sending a thought to those at home. The train is ready. Our haversacks are strapped on and we line up on the platform. The regulations order silence, but each man is shouting with all his might. When the train begins to move, there are ten heads and shoulders pressing out at the windows. We again shriek out the _Marseillaise_. In point of fact, where are we going? Where is the 352nd? No one knows, not even Roberty. He has chosen our squadron to supply a police guard for the train. This is a sign of favouritism: the police guard fills three first-class compartments, whilst the other poor fellows are piled in tens in third-class carriages, or even in vans. At each station the guard jump down on to the platform, bayonet fixed, and helmet strapped round the chin. Theoretically they must see to it that no one leaves the station. In reality they say to their comrades, who disperse in every direction-- "Fetch me a quart, old man! See, here's my can! You understand I cannot go myself as it is my business to prevent any one leaving."