Was it a prelude to victory? Was Paris illuminated? Perhaps.... But what if it were one of those ephemeral successes? What evil presentiment enslaved me? Was I still under Fortin's influence? (Fortin who was never mentioned now except in a whisper. We knew he was confined to his cell: awaiting trial by Court Martial.) Paris! Why should I dream of defeat? Paris, our head and our heart! Paris as hostage! As martyr perhaps! I pictured the horde of Barbarians pitching their tents in the country we were slipping through, turning their guns on to the glittering capital. Where would their fury end? What would be left of these buildings, this glory, which seemed destined for immortality? These were gloomy visions. Sick at heart, I longed with more ardour than I had lately longed for anything on earth, for the miraculous miscarriage of this probability. If there was one thing at which I was astonished, it was at not finding most of my companions at the ventilators like myself. To send Paris a last greeting! They must all, or nearly all, be feeling that all they counted dear, was shut up within those walls. I who had no one there--nor anywhere else either for that matter--this thought shook me. Nobody. My father? Was a stranger, as I have already said. I thought nevertheless of his farewell, of his fugitive tenderness, due to obscure ties of the blood. Who else was there? Laquarrière? If he thought of me it would certainly be to congratulate himself on being safely in shelter, while I was risking.... Nobody. There really was nobody! And yet my eyes probed the darkness, my glance was unconsciously drawn in a certain direction.... In that suburb, I could imagine a street, a house, ... in that house someone ... someone who had written!--"We think of you a great deal...." An idle dream and one which passed. * * * * * There was a metallic rattle. We were crossing the Seine. Still a few more miles to go, through the dark countryside. An important station was coming soon. Myriad lamps lit up countless railway lines. Our speed slackened, till we slowed down to a walking pace. We slowly skirted endless pavements. I could distinguish retreating uniforms and piles of arms. An artillery sentry gave me a friendly wave. "What station do you come from?" I shouted to him. "Marseilles!" he replied.