“You talk differently. There is a different expression on your face.” “I’m sorry,” said he. “I don’t see why you should be sorry,” said Félise. “If you no longer recognise me,” said he—they talked in French—“I must come to you as a stranger.” She bit her lip and flushed. “I did not know what I was saying. Perhaps it was impertinent.” “How could it be, Félise?” he asked, bending across the table. “But if I have changed, is it for the better or the worse?” “Would you be a waiter here again?” Martin looked for a second into his soul. “No,” said he. “_Voilà!_” said Félise. “But I couldn’t tell you why.” “It’s not necessary,” said Félise. Bigourdin joined them. The meal ended. Félise went off to her duties. Bigourdin said: “Let us go and drink our coffee at the Café de l’Univers. Everybody is there, at this hour, the last day or two. We may learn some news.” They descended the hill and walked along the blazing quays. Martin knew every house, every stone, every old woman who pausing from beating her linen on the side of the Dronne waved him a welcome. And men stopped him and slapped his shoulder and shook him by the hand. “You recognise the good heart of Périgord,” said Bigourdin. Martin replied, with excusable Gallic hyperbole: “_C’est mon pays_. I find it again, after having wandered over the earth.” They turned into the narrow, cool Rue de Périgueux. On the opposite side of the street, they saw Monsieur Foure, _adjoint du maire_, walking furiously, mopping a red forehead, soft straw hat in hand. He sped across to them, too excited to realise that Martin had gone and returned. “Have you heard the news? The Mayor has received a telegram from Paris. The order of mobilisation goes out to-day.” “_Bon_,” said Bigourdin. The terrace of the Café de l’Univers was crowded with the notables of the town, who, in their sober way, only frequented the café after dinner. The special côterie had their section apart, as at night. They were all assembled—Fénille of the Compagnie du Gaz; Beuzot, Professor of the Ecole Normale; the Viriots, father and son; Thiébauld, managing director of the quarries; Bénoît of the railway; Rutillard, the great chandler of corn and hay; and they did not need the _adjoint du Maire_ to tell them the news. The fresh arrivals, provided speedily with chairs by the waiters, were swallowed up in the group. And Martin was assailed. “_Et maintenant, l’Angleterre. Qu’est-ce qu’elle va faire?_” It was the question on all French lips that day until England declared war. And Martin proclaimed, as though inspired from Whitehall, that England would fight. For the moment his declaration satisfied them. The talk swayed from him excitedly. France at war, at last, after forty years, held their souls. They talked in the air, as men will, of numbers, of preparations, of chances, of the solidarity of the nation. When there was a little pause, the square-headed, white-haired Monsieur Viriot rose and with a gesture, imposed silence.