Trains do not stop long enough at the station to allow the women of the Red Cross to go through all the cars. Even though it is against the rules, we reach the platform from the railroad-crossing and distribute fruit, bread, and chocolate to the children.

Our brave soldiers, for all their wounds and their weariness, look confident, and the ones we are able to approach assure us that they do not doubt our victory for a single instant. They have seen it. I can read it in their eyes.

How I long to be useful in these tragic hours! It is the duty of everyone to the full measure of his strength. No effort to help, however small, is unimportant.

Unfortunately, the hospital at Quincy is not yet completely organized, but meanwhile a branch has been fitted up at the railroad station. I am assigned to the Quincy hospital, and so am obliged to wait until it is opened.

There are moments when I could weep at not being able to do as much as I should like to relieve all this suffering—to give of my strength since I cannot give of my purse. I want to start for the hospitals near the front, but my mother absolutely forbids it.

I wrote to Bishop Marbeau asking to be allowed to work in one of his hospitals. He answers that Meaux has no hospital as yet, but that he will let me know in case there is any way I can be of use. He sends with his letter several packages containing warm clothing and various useful articles for needy soldiers of the neighborhood. I am deeply touched.

Quincy possesses a dispensary installed by Madame Bruneau, mistress of the chÂteau. This dispensary, directed by a Sister of Mercy, Sister Jules, is of great service to the civilian population in time of peace. Since war was declared, it has been transformed into a hospital for wounded or sick soldiers, and the management entrusted to Madame RenÉ Benoist, wife of the mayor of the commune.

This hospital has two branches—one at Pont-aux-Dames, in the Home for Aged Actors founded by Coquelin, the other at the Esbly railroad station. From here the wounded who arrive on the trains will be taken to Quincy or Pont-aux-Dames.

Doctor Pigornet of CrÉcy is in charge of the medical service.

So far no orders have been received from the Sanitary Service assigning wounded to either branch. We are obliged to wait for these orders. Each annex has its staff appointed. Quincy is not entirely fitted up. Pont-aux-Dames is organized, and the branch at the station is already at work.

Trains keep rushing to the Eastern frontier in an endless procession. The roar is incessant, especially at night, and a dismal sound it is.

Refugees in even greater numbers throng the roads. The towns on the other side of the Marne are beginning to be evacuated. It is a desolate sight.

Old people manage with difficulty to keep their balance on carts piled high with household goods and fodder. Young women walk, carrying little ones whose eyes are wide with fatigue and fright at all this commotion.

Carts follow carts, crowded close together in one long line. They come from LiÈge, from Namur, from our invaded regions of the North!

In the midst of all these people in vehicles and on foot, terrified cattle jostle each other. Some that were in leading have broken loose; others, still tied, cannot keep up, and let themselves be dragged along. Sheep and cows run about the fields or simply stop where they are and begin to graze.

As a result of the increasing difficulty in taking their cattle with them, peasants dispose of them for almost nothing: a cow, forty francs.

The hospital at Quincy, though it cannot be of service to the wounded, will at least, while waiting for them, have cared for the unfortunate refugees. It is distributing soup to three hundred people daily, as well as milk and other food and drink. Tired women stop there to rest a little before resuming their sad journey to the unknown.

They all have a tale of horror to tell—barbarous acts committed by the Germans in the homes these people are fleeing from—acts so terrible that it is almost impossible to believe them. One man tells us that a young boy in his family had both hands cut off by these wretches. "This child," he said, "must have been taken along this road. We started out together, but I was so tired and hungry that I stopped to rest, and got separated from the others. The Boches have destroyed everything I possessed." (I have made inquiries. People tell me they saw at the Couilly bridge a little boy of about seven with both arms wrapped in bandages.)

Supplies of food at the hospital are beginning to give out. The town-crier is sent out to make an appeal to the generosity of the citizens, and once more the kitchen is filled with food.

The town-crier, in conformance with instructions from the Prefect, orders the civil population to carry to the town hall any arms they may have in their possession. Everyone hastens to comply. In their panic, people even carry the ancient arms of their panoplies.

All day long (and for several days back as well) Boche aviators have been flying over us, and seem to be exchanging signals. They come from the direction of Meaux, circle about in large and small circles as far as Voisins, from there they dart in a straight line towards Paris, returning after rather a long flight, still in a straight line in the direction of Soissons, where we lose sight of them. We have noticed this manoeuvre several times.

I walked to Esbly this morning in company with a lad of about fifteen who has come with his mother to take refuge in CondÉ. He told me that, together with several friends whom they brought with them in their motor, they have been fleeing before the enemy all the way from Belgium. "We wanted to go to CompiÈgne," he said, "but were advised to come here instead, because there was less danger. But here, no more than elsewhere," he added, after a pause, "are we safe. We shall not stay. We leave to-morrow."

"But," I asked, "what makes you think we are in danger here?"

"Look at all those 'planes. They are Boche machines. They keep just ahead of the army. At first we did not pay any attention to them, but since then we have found out what it means. You may be sure their troops are not far behind."

I have decided to go to Paris. There I shall find out what is really happening.

At the railroad station they are not sure there will be a return train. The service may be discontinued at any moment. After considering the possibility of having to return on foot, I start out. Come what may, I must see my family in Paris.

The trains are crammed with people and stacked on top of each other are bundles and boxes of all shapes and sizes. From the boxes come the whining of dogs, the screeching of birds, and the mewing of cats. It is indescribable.

On the way back I have the luck to get a train which takes seven hours from Paris to Esbly, being side-tracked all along the line to make way for trains carrying wounded, war supplies, or troops on their way to or from the front.

When I get back to Voisins I am plied with questions by a number of people who are anxiously awaiting my return. I hardly dare give them the news I have brought.

I went to the Bank of France to see my uncle. He advises us to stay where we are,—this in spite of the fact that the government is being moved to Bordeaux next Thursday. The Bank is preparing to leave at the same time. The courtyard of the Bank is full of automobiles and railroad delivery wagons, which, after being loaded hastily, start out in every direction.

This news throws everyone into a panic.

English heavy artillery arrived to-day. It came by way of Esbly, and this afternoon has been taken up to Coutevroult where the batteries are being installed. Coutevroult is on the slope opposite that of Quincy, Huiry, Voisins. The Grand-Morin flows between.

If the Germans come to Quincy, or the heights over opposite, we shall be between two fires!

We were awakened last night by the tramping and neighing of horses. The horses' hoofs seemed to have been wrapped in something. The sound was muffled.

My mother and I called to each other: "It is the Boches." Did they hear us? The windows of our bedroom open on the street. At any rate, the pace quickened, and finally died away in the direction of the ford—a road leading to the Aulnois woods behind our house, then to PavÉ-des-Roizes, communicating with the CondÉ woods and the banks of the Chalifert canal.

We did not get up quickly enough to find out what this expedition was that was being carried on with so much mystery. It is a great pity, for the night was clear, and it would certainly have been possible to see.