September 8, 1914.

This morning everything and everybody was astir early. It was another gloriously beautiful day. The birds were singing as if to split their throats. There was a smell of coffee all over the place. Men were hurrying up and down the hill, to and fro from the wash-house, bathing, washing out their shirts and stockings and hanging them on the bushes, rubbing down horses and douching them, cleaning saddles and accouterments. There is a lot of work to be done by an army besides fighting. It was all like a play, and every one was so cheerful.

The chef-major did not come down until his orderly called him, and when he did he looked as rosy and cheerful as a child, and announced that he had slept like one. Soon after he crossed the road for his coffee I heard the officers laughing and chatting as if it were a week-end house party.

When Amelie came to get my breakfast she looked a wreck I saw one of her famous bilious attacks coming.

It was a little after eleven, while the chef-major was upstairs writing, that his orderly came with a paper and carried it up to him. He came down at once, made me one of his pretty bows at the door of the library, and holding out a scrap of paper said:

“Well, madame, we are going to leave you. We advance at two.”

I asked him where he was going.

He glanced at the paper in his hand, and replied:

“Our orders are to advance to Saint-Fiacre, a little east of Meaux, but before I go I am happy to relieve your mind on two points. The French cavalry has driven the Uhlans out some of them were captured as far east as Bouleurs. And the English artillery has come down from the hill behind you and is crossing the Marne. We follow them. So you see you can sit here in your pretty library and read all these nice books in security, until the day comes perhaps sooner than you dare hope when you can look back to all these days, and perhaps be a little proud to have had a small part in it.” And off he went upstairs.

I sat perfectly still for a long time. Was it possible that it was only a week ago that I had heard the drum beat for the disarming of the Seine et Marne? Was there really going to come a day when all the beauty around me would not be a mockery? All at once it occurred to me that I had promised Captain Simpson to write and tell him how I had “come through.” Perhaps this was the time. I went to the foot of the stairs and called up to the chef-major. He came to the door and I explained, asking him if, we being without a post-office, he could get a letter through, and what kind of a letter I could write, as I knew the censorship was severe.

“My dear lady,” he replied, “go and write your letter, write anything you like, and when I come down I will take charge of it and guarantee that it shall go through, uncensored, no matter what it contains.”

So I wrote to tell Captain Simpson that all was well at Huiry, that we had escaped, and were still grateful for all the trouble he had taken. When the officer came down I gave it to him, unsealed.

“Seal it, seal it,” he said, and when I had done so, he wrote, “Read and approved” on the envelope, and gave it to his orderly, and was ready to say “Good-bye.”

“Don’t look so serious about it,” he laughed, as we shook hands. “Some of us will get killed, but what of that? I wanted this war. I prayed for it. I should have been sad enough if I had died before it came. I have left a wife and children whom I adore, but I am ready to lay down my life cheerfully for the victory of which I am so sure. Cheer up. I think my hour has not yet come. I had three horses killed under me in Belgium. At Charleroi a bomb exploded in a staircase as I was coming down. I jumped not a scratch to show. Things like that make a man feel immune but Who knows?”

I did my best to smile, as I said, “I don’t wish you courage you have that, but good luck.”

“Thank you,” he replied, “you’ve had that”; and away he marched, and that was the last I saw of him.

I had a strange sensation about these men who had in so few days passed so rapidly in and out of my life, and in a moment seemed like old friends.

There was a bustle of preparation all about us. Such a harnessing of horses, such a rolling-up of half-dried shirts, but it was all orderly and systematic. Over it all hung a smell of soup-kettles the preparations for the midday meal, and a buzz of many voices as the men sat about eating out of their tin dishes. I did wish I could see only the picturesque side of it.

It was two o’clock sharp when the regiment began to move. No bands played. No drum beat. They just marched, marched, marched along the road to Meaux, and silence fell again on the hillside.

Off to the northeast the cannon still boomed, it is still booming now as I write, and it is after nine o’clock. There has been no sign of Amelie all day as I have sat here writing all this to you. I have tried to make it as clear a statement of facts as I could. I am afraid that I have been more disturbed in putting it down than I was in living it. Except on Saturday and Sunday I was always busy, a little useful, and that helped. I don’t know when I shall be able to get this off to you. But at least it is ready, and I shall take the first opportunity I get to cable to you, as I am afraid before this you have worried, unless your geography is faulty, and the American papers are as reticent as ours.