One divined it behind the doors and windows of the houses.
One Saturday evening, when Marie and I--like most of the French--did not know what to think, and talked emptily, we heard the town crier, who performs in our quarter, as in the villages.
"Ah!" she said.
We went out and saw in the distance the back of the man who was tapping a drum.

His smock was ballooned.

He seemed pushed aslant by the wind, stiffening himself in the summer twilight to sound his muffled roll.
Although we could not see him well and scarcely heard him, his progress through the street had something grand about it.
Some people grouped in a corner said to us, "The mobilization." No other word left their lips.

I went from group to group to form an opinion, but people drew back with sealed faces, or mechanically raised their arms heavenwards.

And we knew no better what to think now that we were at last informed.
We went back into the court, the passage, the room, and then I said to Marie, "I go on the ninth day--a week, day after to-morrow--to my depot at Motteville." She looked at me, as though doubtful.
I took my military pay book from the wardrobe and opened it on the table.