On Saturday, when E. M. stopped by for me to go again to the Foire, I said: “I believe I _will_ go to Lunéville. What does one do about papers?” We straightway went to the Rue François Premier, not being in the _mañana_ class, either of us, and found there a charming specimen of _jeunesse dorée_, intellectual, “sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,” but doing his bit. Shears for the cutting of red tape were liberally applied, and my papers were promised in an unprecedented three days. As we “swept” out I said to E. M., “You don’t think we were _too_ strenuous?” She said, “Oh, they are used to us now, though it was a thrilling moment when you ripped your photograph (such a photograph!) from the duplicate of your passport!” The aforementioned charming specimen, M. de P., had said a photograph was essential; it was Saturday afternoon, the next day was Sunday, and for some unexplained reason photographers don’t seem to work in France on Mondays, at least not in war-time. It was about this time that E. M. said, in a _dégagé_ way: “I am going down to Verdun with a friend. It’s awfully difficult, and the women who have been there can be counted on one’s fingers. I wish _you_ could go, too.” I said, “That’s out of the question.” But I thought to myself, “We will see what Fate decides.” It’s a great thing to keep astride of her, anyway. On account of Sunday coming in between, my papers could not be ready in time for me to leave with her on Tuesday (they have to be sent to the _Quartier-Général_ to be stamped), but they were promised for Wednesday that I might start for Lunéville on Thursday. I went to see E. M. at her aunt’s, the Princess P.’s, on Monday night for a few last words and injunctions. I found her after passing through some lovely dove-gray rooms with priceless old portraits of Polish great, hanging on silvery walls, and rare bibelots and porcelains discreetly scattered on charming tables rising from gray carpetings. She greeted me by saying, “It’s all arranged for you to go to Verdun, too.” “Verdun!” I cried. “Glory and sorrow of France!” I didn’t ask how, but thought of the harmonious working of chance that brings as many gifts as blows in its train. _Thursday, June 14th, 10.30 a.m._ We slipped out of the station, flooded with waves of blue-clad men, at eight o’clock, and since then there has been a constant stopping of the train in green, glade-like places to let troop-trains pass. A while ago I found myself looking out on a river, and a shiver went over me. It was the jade-colored, slow-flowing Marne. White morning-glories are thick on every hedge, and wild roses such as grow in New England lanes, and there are many thistles, soft and magenta-colored; lindens, acacias, and poplars abound and hang delicately over the banks of the river.