The furniture
that had fled in other carts from villages now dust upon a dead plain
was returning through all the roads of France, repacked and dusted, to
set up the spirit of civilian life again.
It was time to go, following all the other birds of passage that war had
dragged through the town of Metz--time to make way for the toiling
civilian with his impedimenta of civilisation.
In the morning when she opened her eyes the room was darker than usual,
and the opening of the window but the merest square of light. Snow was
built up round the frame in thick rolls four inches high.
She dressed hurriedly and rolled up the sleeping-sack with her few last
things inside it. Out in the street the snow was dry and thick and
beautifully untrodden. The garage gates looked strange, with a thick
white banner blown down each side of the pillars. She looked inside the
garage shed. Yes, all the cars had gone--hers stood alone, the suitcases
inside, tyres pumped stiff and solid, the hood well buckled back.
"Mademoiselle hasn't gone with the convoy?" said the _marechal des
logis_, aghast.
"Oh, I'm separate," she laughed.
"But the convoy is gone."
"I know it. But I'm not with them. It's an order. I'm going alone."
"_Bien_. But do you know the route?"
"I'm not going by it."
He laughed, suddenly giving up all attempt at responsibility, and bent
to catch her starting handle.
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