I declare, if anyone had put his ear to the door of my bedroom when I was dressing, or rather, being dressed, in the morning, they might have sworn that a company of soldiers were drilling. Mixed with the slashing of water and the gasps of a child being bathed came Joubert's military commands; the putting on of my small trousers was accompanied by shrill directions taken from the drill-book, and the full-dress inspection would have satisfied the fastidious soul of Maréchal Niel. After breakfast the carriage was brought to the door, the baggage stowed, and, Joubert, taking the directions from my father, we started for the Schloss Lichtenberg as the clocks of Frankfort were striking eleven. No warmer or more beautiful autumn morning ever cast its light on Germany. By permission of the German Foreign Office, we had a complete set of road-maps, with our route laid down in red ink, each numbered, and each to be returned to the German Embassy in Paris on the conclusion of our tour. We did not hurry--time was our own; we stopped sometimes at posthouses, with porches vine-overgrown, where I had plums, Joubert had beer, and my father chatted to the country people, who crowded round our carriage, and the stout innkeepers who served us. The Taunus Mountains, blue in the warm haze of distance, beautiful with the magic of their pine forests, lay before us. At two o'clock we passed up the steep, cobble-paved main street of Homburg--a smaller Homburg then--and at three we had left the tiny village of Emsdorff and its schloss behind us. We were in a different country here, the mountains were very close, and the road threaded the edges of the great forest. I knew the Forest of Sênart, which lies quite close to the Château de Saluce, but the Forest of Sênart was tame as a flower-garden compared with this. The air was filled with the perfume and the singing and sighing of the great pine trees, the carriage went almost without sound over the carpet of pine-needles, and once, in the deepest part, where all was green gloom and dancing points of light, my father called a halt and we sat for a moment to listen. You could hear the leagues of silence, and then, like the rustling of a lady's skirt, came the wind sighing across the tree-tops and loudening to the patter of falling fir-cones, and dying away again and leaving the silence to herself. The bark of a fox, the far-off cry of a jay, instantly peopled the place for my childish mind with the people of Grimm and Hoffmann, Father Barbel, the beasts that talked, and the robbers of the forest, more mysterious and fascinating than gnomes. "Listen!" said my father. Mournful, faint, and far away came the notes of a horn.