It was the instinctive, surprised and joyous greeting of the two servants. Martin stood unstrung. What had he done to deserve it? Before he could utter a word, he felt two colossal arms swung round him and a kiss implanted on each cheek. Then Bigourdin held him out and looked at him, and, like Grégoire, told him how solid he looked. “_Enfin!_ You’ve come back. Tell me how and when and why. Tell me all.” Martin’s eyes were moist. “My God!” said he, with a catch in his voice, “you are a good fellow.” “Not a bit, _mon cher_. We are friends, and in friendship there is something just a little bit sacred. But tell me, _nom d’une pipe!_ all about yourself.” “I was on my way,” said Martin, with his conscientious honesty, “from Penang to New York. At Marseilles I heard for the first time of the war in which France will be involved and of which we have so often talked. And something, I don’t know what, called me here—_et me voici!_” “_C’est beau. C’est bien beau de ta part_,” said Bigourdin seriously. “Let us go and find Félise.” Now, when a Frenchman characterises a deed as _beau_, it is in his opinion very fine indeed. But before they could move, Euphémie rushed from her kitchen and all but embraced the wanderer and Joseph, late _plongeur_ at the Café de l’Univers and now waiter at the hôtel, came shyly from the _salle-à-manger_, and the brightness of his eyes was only equalled by the lustre of the habiliments that formerly had belonged to Martin. Bigourdin despatched him in quest of Félise. Soon she came, from the _fabrique_, looking rather white. Joseph had shot his news at her. But she came up looking Martin straight in the eyes, her hand extended. “_Bonjour_, Martin. I am glad to see you again.” “So am I,” said he. “More than glad. It’s like coming back to one’s own people.” She drew up her little head and asked with a certain bravura: “How is Lucilla?” He winced; but he did not show it. He smiled. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard of her since March.” “Neither have I,” she said. “Not since January. She seems to be a bird of passage through other people’s lives.” Bigourdin laughed, shaking a great forefinger. “I bet that is not original. I bet you are quoting your old philosopher of a father!” She coloured and said defiantly: “Yes. I confess it. It is none the less true.” “And how is the good Fortinbras?” asked Martin, to turn a distressful conversation. “_A merveille!_ We are expecting him by any train. It is I who am making him come. To-morrow I may be called out. France will want more than the Troupes Métropolitaines and the Réserves to fight the Germans. They will want the Territorials, _et c’est moi, l’armée territoriale_.” He thumped his chest. “It was written that I should strike a blow for France like my fathers. But while I am striking the blow who is to look after my little Félise and the Hôtel des Grottes? It is well to be prepared. When the mobilisation is ordered, there will be no more trains for civilians.”