It was an oppressive day. The sun was fierce; the sky leaden, without soul, without life. In the carriage it was stifling. “Where are we?” “At Ingolstadt.” Ingolstadt! The “forty propositions,” Luther, Father Eck, the celebrated attempt to unite the two churches, the great “disputations” of the sixteenth century. But the sight of the bayonets of the Bavarian guard on the platform dispersed my train of reminiscences. My stomach was complaining loudly. We were told that the stop was for six hours. The sergeant of the guard assured us that we were to be sent to Switzerland. Then a medical officer, thick-lipped and hook-nosed, with small, laughing eyes, a man who waddled continually with a sort of conceited good-nature, passed through the carriage, and said in a nasal accent: “Pas te malades? Pas te fièvres tes gôlônies?”[9] This Judaico-Swabian French revived our spirits. But the gnawing in our stomachs continued. Would they not give us a slice of _Wurst_ or a plate of soup with a gobbet of meat in it? But they brought us nothing. The six hours had passed. The midday heat made the blood boil in our veins. It happened but yesterday, and yet it has aged me by a century. I say it without hatred, without the shadow of a desire for vengeance. Under the ancien régime the crowd was amenable without restriction to talliage and to the corvée; now that it reigns, the crowd is gullible without restriction; it is nothing better than an unstable puff of vapour at the mercy of the winds. My heart is filled with pity for the crowd. “Where are we going?” I asked of the _Feldwebel_[10] in command of the detachment. “To Fort Orff, two leagues from here, towards the north. You will find there a thousand of your compatriots.” “Are you keeping the men of the red cross as prisoners?” “So it seems. I can’t understand it. At Fort Orff there are certainly quite a hundred _Sanitäter_.” “These are fine spoil!”