We reach the Gare de Lyons and, shouldering arms, proceed in columns of fours to the Gare Saint-Lazare. Our men hail every taxi-cab driver they see. "I say, old man, just go and tell my wife ... or my mother ... or my sister, will you? She lives in such a street, such a number. Hurry up and bring her along." "All right!" Off goes the chauffeur. Half an hour after he is back with the whole family, and, amid the emotion and excitement of so unexpected a reunion, slips away without a thought of payment. Halt in front of the Cirque d'Hiver. We pile our rifles and take off our haversacks. The crowd collects around and proves very emotional. Useless to say to one's friends or relatives-- "Don't carry things too far, we are not coming back, we are only going!" The good-natured public will listen to nothing; they give us credit and treat us as heroes just the same. A second halt at Rue Auber. The crowd around grows larger and larger. It appears that Paris has been really threatened. This morning's communiqué, however, states that the enemy has retired a distance of forty kilometres. At the Gare Saint-Lazare more than two hundred out of the five hundred men belonging to the detachment have their family around them. At nine the train is waiting and we have to leave. We embrace and shout, laugh and cry, promise to return soon and to write. Roberty, Reymond and I have made up our mind to travel first-class. In one of the compartments a very stylish, gentlemanly-looking individual has installed himself. Strapping my helmet under my chin, I assume a tone of voice at once firm and courteous, and say-- "I beg pardon, monsieur, but you are occupying a seat reserved for the chief." The gentleman, abashed, vaguely stammers some excuse or other, hurriedly snatches up his valise and travelling rug and looks for another seat. When he has gone, I remark-- "What a bouncer!" The three of us sprawl at our ease over the six seats, posing as well-to-do persons off on a holiday. We walk along the passage. A wounded corporal, belonging to Class 12, promises us victory, and is intoxicated at the prospect. In reply to our questions, he says-- "You ask if we have got them? We're simply sweeping the ground with them! I killed one this afternoon, a sergeant. Here's his shoulder tab and his belt clasp. Read the words on it: _Gott mit uns_. What brazen effrontery! "Just think, he was running away. I caught him up and gave him a dig with my bayonet between the shoulders. Then, do you know what the cur did? He actually turned round and wounded me. I gave him another thrust and finished him off. "I could never have thought it would give one so jolly a feeling to kill a man." After a moment's reflection-- "After all, this is an ugly cut in the thigh. He might have maimed me for life." "That's perhaps what he wanted to do."