"No!" A mist enfolded me. I managed to get up to the top by holding on to the banisters. On the landing I said mechanically: "What? what did you say?" She pushed me into the drawing-room. "Go in, go in. Your cousin will tell you all about it." Left alone for a minute I considered the well-known furniture in a dazed way; the piano with the open score of Rigoletto, the arm-chairs in loose covers, the two big couches, the two greenish screens ... I sought a new aspect of it all; I childishly reminded myself that I must remember that the things were in a like state when war was declared. My cousin, the doctor, a sturdy mountaineer, tall and highly coloured, came in and quietly held out his hand to me. "Well, there we are!" he said. I got nothing but a few concise particulars out of him; ever since the morning they had realised that things were going from bad to worse, the "Pontissalien" usually so guarded ended its leading article by a very clearly stated warning that we must be prepared for anything. Our frontier had been violated, communications cut off. Our custom-house officers at Petit-Croix had been shot at last night. Negotiations had continued, however. As a matter of fact the official telegram, which had arrived on the stroke of five o'clock contained only the seven words: "Sunday. August 2nd. First day of Mobilisation." "What do you say to going to the Town Hall?" suggested the doctor. I agreed, as meekly as one intoxicated. We went out. We had only a step or two to go. CHAPTER IV A MOUNTAIN VILLAGE, THE SAME EVENING The telegram from the Prefecture was posted up at the door. It was still daylight, I lingered to gaze at it. My cousin took me by the arm. "I say, come along in." There was no one there but Alfred Lecomte, the town clerk, a still youthful peasant of a thoughtful cast of countenance, and in a corner, the deputy mayor, an infirm old man who kept in the background. "Well, what the deuce are you doing, Alfred?" said the doctor. The other had got up, his pen behind his ear. "Good heavens, man!" continued my cousin, "can't you realise that there's anything to be done?" "What should there be?" "What should there be? You must send word first to La Ferrière and Tarins!" Lecomte tossed his head: "Send word! That would mean a nice lot of running about! They've had the bells rung: it is up to the people to come and find out what it is about." My cousin began to get angry: "You idiot, Alfred. How do you imagine they'll suspect anything of the kind! You must send Machurot to them." He was the local policeman. "He'll be having a drink." "At Tronquière's?" "Probably." A boy, who stuck his nose in, was sent to look for him. My cousin undertook to draw up the proclamation destined for the neighbouring populace. He dashed it down without any scratchings out, and gave it to me to run through. "Excellent!" I exclaimed.