Then memory carried her on to the beginning of last season, at the seashore. The weather had been so fine! Jean had been so lucky as to get his vacation from his commercial house by the 15th of July; they had gone to Surville. The Hotel de Normandie was already well filled, the Casino was crowded, sports were humming, the Little Theatre was exhibiting Parisian vedettes, a row of autos was sending vile smells up to the terrace where every one sat of afternoons imbibing soft drinks and roasting in the sun to the music of the gypsy orchestra; elegant young men were displaying khaki costumes, martingales, and broad-brimmed hats. In the evening every one had danced the tango in the hall. The great stir of the watering-place had begun--futile doings without number, comings and goings, from bar to bar, from casino to casino, from luncheon to luncheon. "Oh, say, are you coming? Look here, Jean! Aren't you tiresome, always reading despatches! One would say that you were expecting something to happen. What concern is it of yours?" Every evening, on their way to the great hall of the Casino through the gallery that looked out upon the sea, whether going to the theatre or the music-hall, or simply intending to sit down and drink their coffee or their camomile, they had found a crowd of, men in tuxedos standing before the frame that hung on the right of the door, on which despatches from Paris and quotations of the Bourse were posted. Odette could still hear the reproaches she had addressed to her husband as he returned with unwonted seriousness from reading them. "Well, what about it all?" she had asked. Jean had kept back some of the more sensational news, but one evening he had added: "There is an ultimatum to Serbia." "What of that?" Nothing more had been said. But Jean had risen twice from his chair to speak to men whom he knew, conferring with them in the lobby, then returning to his wife. "Oh, nothing will happen yet," he had said. This had gone on for several evenings. It had become necessary to explain some things. Then Odette herself had become anxious; she would go with her husband to read the despatches; she would go to them by herself in the daytime. But the number of readers was increasing, and the silence, or the few words that would escape from the group, troubled her; she would go down to the beach to read the despatches at the _Figaro_ kiosk. Threats of war? ... European war? ... War? ... No, surely that was not likely. The idea was finding extreme difficulty in penetrating people's skulls. Despatch was succeeding despatch, twice a day, now reassuring, now disturbing; but whenever one contained matter for alarm, it was always better founded than that of the previous day. Odette had at last asked her husband: "Well, if by any chance there should be war, would that affect you--yourself?" "Don't be in a hurry, my darling; war has not yet been declared." "But--but--if it should be?"