The men are very grave, but they start off without a complaint, without a murmur. And if they are courageous, the women who accompany them, understanding fully their own great duty, do not give way to their feelings for a single instant. They are determined that no tears of theirs shall make harder the task of father or husband. It is really sublime. Huge bunches and garlands of roses are twined over the cars. Here and there is the vivid note of our national bouquet of simple wildflowers--cornflowers, daisies, and poppies, scarce at this season. In the cannon's mouth and on the gun-carriages are branches of laurel. Inscriptions chalked on all the cars bear witness to the good morale of our troops. On the locomotive of a return train we read: Our souls to God, Our blood to our country, Our hearts to our women, Our bodies to the wicked. How very French that is! It is as if these trains, decked with flowers and flags, were on their way to a vast festival. When each train comes to a standstill there is an impressive moment of silence, broken by cheers as it moves off. Although I was deeply stirred by these departures, I stayed a long time at the station, filled with admiration at the ardor with which every man answers the call of his country. It is a sight never to be forgotten. On the way home from the station, I meet a friend whom I have known a long time, a good man who is father of a family. In order to spare his wife and children the worst of the farewells, he has insisted on going alone to the station. He asks permission to embrace me. "I have known you since you were such a little tot, Mademoiselle." Of course I consent willingly. Highways as well as railroads are being used for transporting men and supplies. Auto-buses, delivery wagons of Paris shops--the Bon Marché, Galéries Lafayette, Printemps, still bearing their signboards and advertisements--go by on the road to Meaux, carrying munitions (at least we imagine so). They are tight shut, and, to judge by their dull rumble, heavily laden. Just as I reach the outskirts of Quincy, I see a group of men armed with pitchforks and sticks coming down the road. Farther on, a lady with white hair is holding a Browning aimed at the sky. What is happening? I learn that an automobile driven by Germans and flying the Red Cross flag has been signalled. The order has just come by telephone to try to stop it. The constable is blockading the road with carts, planks, and farming implements. I immediately start back to Voisins, and urge everyone I meet to do likewise. In the distance an automobile coming at a rapid pace from the direction of Couilly stops suddenly at the sight of the barricade. The little group of armed civilians approach. It is too far away for me to make out anything more, but I see a second automobile, driven at top speed, slow down, and then swiftly wheel about. In my anxiety to give the alarm in Voisins, I do not notice which way it goes.