The pale officer from Savoy said: “There should never be any war; _c’est trop terrible_; but, once given the fact that war exists, all means to victory are justifiable.” And the bright, hard look deepening on his face made me suddenly think of Charles Martel and Charlemagne, and I knew it was the way French warriors have looked through the ages, but, oh! France. “_Oh doux pays!_” At Bar-le-Duc, dating from the Merovingians, at least, we descended (our bags passed out of the windows by the officers), and went through a dark, silent, linden-scented town, obliged to drag our own belongings through an interminable street, over a bridge across tree-bordered black water, till we got to this abode, known to men by the name of Hôtel de Metz et du Commerce. What the devils call it I don’t know; I have just chased the black cat out, and if I don’t get some sleep I shall not get to Verdun. There’s no linden scent coming in at my window here. BAR-LE-DUC, _eight o’clock a.m._ Waiting in the sandy-floored dining-room of the hotel. All three of us very cross. At dawn not only the light, but the sounds of chopping of wood, emptying of pails, and invectives of various sorts came in at the dreadful windows. At seven the maid mounted to know if we wanted the water in the tea or the tea in the water. That tea “threw” them. Not a sign of the famous Bar-le-Duc jellies that one has eaten all one’s life, even _outre-mer_. We compared notes of furry, rumpled sheets, dented pillows, dark coverlets, dreadful scents, and unmistakable sounds. We are now somewhat restored by hot and very good _café au lait_, and Mrs. C. P. is looking out of the door for signs of Mr. de Sinçay, who has just stepped out of his motor. CHAPTER VIII VERDUN _Verdun! The sound is like a clarion call. Verdun! It is shorty but gravely harmonious. It is satisfying to the ear, it is quickening to the soul. Verdun! It is for France the word of words; in it lies the whole beauty of her language and of her martial glory as well._ _Who shall say it is but a fortuitous collection of letters, this word Verdun, beautiful as a chalice, that holds the dearest blood of France? It would not have been the same mystically, perhaps not actually, had it been Toul or Epinal or even that other melodic sound, Belfort. Verdun! It is the call through red days and nights, and everywhere the sons of France rallying to it with great hurryings lest mayhap one be there before the other, to dye with deeper color the crimson of high deeds. Verdun, ear and tongue relinquish you regretfully._ _Verdun, glory and sorrow of France, I salute you, Verdun! Verdun!_ Night, silence, and memory turning over the events of the day.