Finally an empty fiacre came along and I signaled the driver, jumping aboard at the same moment. Just as an hour earlier when I signaled a cab, a Frenchman stepped in at the opposite side. Only, this time, the Frenchman wasted no words concerning his rights to the carriage. He bowed. "I go to the Place de l'Opera," he said pleasantly. I bowed. "I go to exactly the same spot," I replied tactfully. We sat down and he directed the driver. We remained silent as we drove down the Cours la Reine until we came opposite the Esplanade of the Invalides. The sun was setting behind the golden dome over the tomb of Napoleon. Then my companion spoke: "I will take the subway at the Opera station and go to my home. It will be the last time. I join my regiment to-morrow." I looked at him for a moment, then asked curiously: "How do you feel about it? Tell me--are you glad--and are you confident?" He looked me straight in the eye. "I am glad," he answered. "We are all glad--glad that the waiting and the disappointments, the humiliations of forty-four years, are over." "And will you win--you think?" "I do not know, but we will fight well--that is all I can say, and this time we are not fighting alone." We arrived at the Opera. He jumped to the sidewalk and put out his hand. "Good-by," he said, smiling. "May we meet again." I wrung his hand and watched him dive down the stairs to the subway station. I remained at the office as the afternoon slipped into evening and evening into night, writing my despatches on the actual outbreak of war. As I sat by the window, I suddenly realized that instead of the dazzling illumination of the boulevards I was gazing into the darkness. I investigated this phenomenon and I wrote another despatch upon the new aspect of the city of Paris on the first night of the war. It was a cable describing the death of the old "Ville Lumière" and the birth of the new French spirit. For not only were the boulevards dark, but the voices of the city were hushed. It began to rain--a gentle, warm, summer rain; the gendarmes put on their rubber capes and hoods and melted into the shadows. I went out to take my despatches to the cable office. The streets were quiet as death. A forlorn fiacre ambled dismally out of a gloomy side street, the bell on the horse's neck giving forth a hollow-sounding tinkle. I climbed in. The driver turned immediately off the boulevard into a back street, when suddenly the decrepit horse fell to his haunches in the slippery road. At once I felt, for I could scarcely see, four silent figures surrounding us. The night before I would have scented danger; but now I had a different feeling entirely. The four shadowy figures remained silent, at attention, as the driver hauled the kicking and plunging horse to his feet. "He thinks of the war," said the driver. A quiet chuckle came from the quartet, and I could now distinguish that they were gendarmes. "You travel late," one of them said, addressing me.