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  CHAPTER III

  THE CALL TO ARMS

  "This does not yet mean war!"

  So M. Donnet had cried, in a final word of warning, meaning, ifpossible, to do his part in the government's plan, still in force, ofrestraining the passions of the French people. No. It did not mean war.Not quite. But it meant that war was inevitable; that within a fewhours, at the most, mobilization would be ordered. This was on Saturday.And that evening Germany declared war on Russia. Within an hour posterswere everywhere. The general mobilization had been ordered.

  The teachers in that school were young men. On the word they went. Eachknew what he had to do. Each had his little book of instructions. Heneeded no orders. The mere fact that mobilization had been ordered wasall he needed to know. He knew already where he must report, where hisuniform and his equipment would be given to him, and which regiment hewas to join. He was a soldier by virtue of the three years, or the two,he had spent already with the colors. He did not have to be drilled; allthat had been done. He knew how to shoot, how to live in camp, how tomarch. If he was a cavalryman, he knew how to ride; if an artilleryman,how to handle the big guns.

  And as with the teachers, so it was with the other men about theschool,--the gardeners, the servants, all of them. Within an hour of thetime when the order was issued, they were on their way and the schoolwas deserted, save for boys and one or two old men, who bewailed thefact that they were too old to fight. In the streets St. Denis lookedlike a deserted village. All the young men were going.

  Swiftly preparations were made to close the school. Madame Donnet, leftin charge when her husband went, called the boys together.

  "You must get home," she said. "Here you cannot stay. There will be noway to care for you. And soon, too, the school will be used as ahospital. So it was in 1870. I shall stay, and I shall prepare for whatis to come. M. Donnet telegraphed yesterday to all the parents, biddingthem be ready for what has come. I will give money for travelingexpenses. And in happier times we shall meet again."

  Save for the friendly offer Henri had already made, Frank Barnes mightwell have been in a sorry plight. And, indeed, he offered now to let hischum withdraw his invitation.

  "I have plenty of money, Harry," he said. "And if I go into Paris, tothe American ambassador, or the consul, he will see that I am all rightuntil my uncle comes. Your family won't want a guest now."

  But Harry wouldn't hear of this.

  "Now more than ever!" he said. "It will be different. True--not as wehad planned it before this came. But you shall come, and perhaps weshall be able to do something for France with the Boy Scouts. We shallsee. But this much is certain--I think we shall not be able to go toAmiens at once. Amiens is in the north--it is that way that the soldiersmust go, soldiers from Paris, from Tours, from Orleans, from all thesouth. It is from the north that the Germans will come. Perhaps theywill try to come through Belgium. So, until the troops have finishedwith the railways, we must wait. We will go to my aunt in Paris."

  And go they did to Madame Martin, Henri's aunt, who lived in a streetbetween the Champs Elysees and the Avenue de l'Alma, not far from thefamous arch of triumph that is the centre of Paris. At the station inSt. Denis, where they went from the school, they found activity enoughto make up, and more than make up, for the silence and stillnesseverywhere else. The station was choked with soldiers, reservistspreparing to report on the next day, the first of actual mobilization.Women were there, mothers, wives, sweethearts, to bid good-bye to theseyoung Frenchmen they might never see again because of war.

  And there was no room on the trains to Paris for any save soldiers. Thegates of the station were barred to all others, and Frank and Harry wentback to the school.

  "I know what we can do, of course," said Harry. "It isn't very far.We'll leave our bags here at the school, and make packs of the things weneed. And then we'll ride in on our bicycles. We were stupid not tothink of that before."

  That plan they found it easy to put into execution. They had meant toabandon their bicycles for the time being, at least, but now theyrealized what a mistake it would have been to do that, since with everynormal activity cut off by the war, the machines were almost certain tobe their only means of getting from one place to another, in thebeginning at least.

  Mounted on their bicycles, they now found their progress easy. The roadsthat led into Paris were crowded, to be sure. They passed countlessautomobiles carrying refugees. Already the Americans were pouring outof Paris in their frantic haste to reach the coast and so take boat toEngland. On Saturday night automobiles were still allowed to leaveParis. Next morning there would be a different story to tell.

  In Paris, when they began to enter the more crowded sections, they sawthe same scenes as had greeted them in St. Denis, only on a vastlylarger scale. Everywhere farewells were being said. Men in uniforms wereall about. Officers, as soon as they were seen, were hailed by thedrivers of taxicabs, who refused even to think of carrying a civilianpassenger if an officer wanted to get anywhere, or, if there were noofficers, a private soldier. The streets were crowded, however, and withmen. Here there were thousands, of course, not required to report atonce.

  "When mobilization is ordered," explained Henri, "each man in France hasa certain day on which he is to report at his depot. It may be the firstday, the third, the fifth, the tenth. If all came at once it would meantoo much confusion. As it is, everything is done quickly and in order."

  "It doesn't look it," was Frank's comment.

  "No," said his chum, with a laugh. "That's true. But it's so, just thesame. Every man you see knows just when he is to go, and when the timecomes, off he will go. Why, even in your America, now, all the Frenchmenwho have gone there are trying to get back. I know. They will be here assoon as the ships can bring them. They will report to the consulfirst--he will tell them what to do."

  They made slow progress through the crowded streets. Already, however,there was a difference in the sort of crowding. There were fewertaxicabs, very many fewer. And there were no motor omnibuses at all.

  "What has become of them?" asked Frank. "Aren't there men enough to runthem?"

  "Yes, and they are running them," said Henri, dryly. "But not in Paris.They are on their way to the border, perhaps. Wherever they are, theyare carrying soldiers or supplies. The government has always the rightto take them all. Even at the time of the manoeuvres, some are taken,though not all. It is the same with the automobiles. In a few days therewill be none left--the army will have them all. Officers need them toget around quickly. Generals cannot ride now--it is too slow to use ahorse. You have heard of Leon Bollet?"

  "No. Who is he?"

  "He is a famous automobile driver in races. He has won the Grand Prix.He will drive a general. He is a soldier, like all Frenchmen, and thatwill be his task--to drive some great general wherever he wants to go."

  That was how the meaning of mobilization really came home to Frank, wholearned more from the things he missed that he was accustomed to seeingthan from new sights. In the boulevards, for instance, where as a rulethe little tables in front of the cafes would be crowded, all the tableshad vanished. That was a result of what was happening. Everythingbrought the fact of war home to him. To him it was even more vividperhaps than to Henri, who had been brought up to know that some timeall this would come about, and saw little that he had not been sure,some time, of seeing.

  The crowds delayed them. Sometimes they had to dismount from theirwheels and walk for a space, but in the end they came to theirdestination. Madame Martin, Henri's aunt, greeted him with delight.

  "We were thinking of you, Henri!" she said. "Your uncle said to me onlyto-night, when we heard of the mobilization: 'And what of Henri? Hecannot go home yet.' I knew you would come to us! And you have brought afriend? That is very well."

  "Oh--an American!" she exclaimed, a moment later. "You have done well,my nephew."

  "I'm half French," said Frank. Somehow he was beginning to feel veryproud of that. These last few hours, that had
shown him how Francerallied in the face of a terrible and pressing danger had made iteasier for him to understand his mother's love of her own land. He wasstill an American above all; that he would always be. But there wasFrench blood in his veins after all, and blood is something that is andalways must be thicker than water.

  So he had to explain himself, and when he spoke of the uncle who was tocome for him Madame Martin looked concerned.

  "I am glad that you are here," she said, simply. "It may be hard for himto get here. But we can look after you until he comes. There is roomenough--and, ma foi, you shall have all that we have!"