his humble fellow passengers in the bows of the vessel, he felt his pulses thrill at the first sight of the blue islands of Marseilles. It was France, country almost of his adoption. He rejoiced that he had decided not to book his ticket to Southampton, but to pass through the beloved land once again before he sailed

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to another Hemisphere. Besides, his money and most of his personal effects (despatched from Egypt) were lying at Cook’s office in Paris. The practical therefore turned sentiment into an easy channel. He landed, carrying his bag in his hand, bought a paper on the quay from a scream

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ing urchin, and to his stupefaction found the world on the brink of war. At Gibraltar he had not seen a newspaper. None had penetrated to the steerage and he had not landed. He had taken it for granted that the good, comfortable old earth was rolling its usual course. No

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w, at Marseilles, he became aware of every one in the blazing sunshine of the quays staring at newspapers held open before them. At the modest hotel hard by, where he deposited his bag, he questioned the manager. Yes, did not he know? Austria had declared war on Servia. Germany had

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rejected all proposals from England for a conference. The President of the Republic had hurried from Russia. Russia would not allow Servia to be attacked by Austria. France must join Russia. It was a coup prepared by Germany. “Ca y est, c’est la guerre,” said he. Martin went o

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ut into the streets and found a place on the crowded terrace of one of the cafés on the Cannebière. All around him was the talk of war. The rich-voiced Proven?aux do not speak in whispers. There was but one hope for peace, the successful intervention of England between

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Russia and Austria. But Germany would not have it. War was inevitable. Martin bribed a chasseur to find him some English papers, no matter of what date. With fervent anxiety he scanned the history of the momentous week. What he read confirmed the talk. Whatever action England might

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take, France would be at war

in a few days. He paid for his drink and walked up the Cannebière. He saw no smiling faces. The shadow of war already overspread the joyous town. A battalion of infantry passed by, and people stood still involuntarily and watched the soldiers with looks curiously stern. And Martin stood also, and remained standi

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g of officials; the honest

Sakura Haruno

Proin gravida nibh vel velit auctor aliquet Aenean sollicitudin auctor.

essions. From his own particular journeyings of seven months he had returned almost bewilderingly alone. East of Marseilles there dwelt not a human being whose call no matter how faint sounded in his ears. England, in so far as intimate personal England was concerned, had no call for him either. Nor had America, unknown, remote, unfriendly as Greenland. Jostled, he walked along the busy thoroughfare, a man far away, tre

John Doe

Nemo enim ipsam voluptatem quia voluptas sit aspernatur aut odit aut fugit sed.

igord, to share in its hopes and its fears, its mourning and its joy. He returned to the hotel for his bag and took the first train in the direction of Brant?me. What he would do when arrived, he had no definite notion. It was something beyond reason that drove him thither. Something irresistible; more irresistible than the force which had impelled him to Egypt. Then he had hesitated, weighed things for and against. N

Naruto Uzumaki

Quis autem vel esse eum iure reprehenderit qui in ea voluptate velit esse.

yet gone forth. Swarthy men and women worked in the baking vineyards and gathered in the yellow harvest. But here and there on flashing glimpses of white road troops marched dustily and military waggons lumbered along. And in the narrow, wooden-seated third-class carriage on the slow and ever stopping train, the talk even of the humblest was of war. At every station some of the passengers left, some entered. There seemed

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to be a sudden conc

entration homewards. At every station were soldiers recalled from leave to their garrisons. These, during the journey, were questioned as authoritative functionaries. Yes, for sure, there would be war. Why they did not know, except that the sales bêtes of Germans were, at last, going to invade France. Said one, “I saw an officer yesterday in our village—the son of Monsieur le Comte de Boir

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elles who has the big chateau là-bas—we have known each other from childhood—and he said, ‘Hein, mon brave, ca y est!’ And I said: ‘What, mon lieutenant?’ And he said, ‘V’là le son, le son du canon.’ Fight like a good son of Boirelles, or I’ll cut off your

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ears.’ And I replied, quasiment comme ?a: ‘You will not have the opportunity, mon lieutenant, you being in the artillery and I in the infantry.’ And he laughed with good heart. ‘Anyhow,’ said he, ‘if you return to the village, when the war is over, without the military medal, and I am alive, I?/p>

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痩l make my mother do it, in the courtyard of the chateau, with her own scissors.’ I tell you this to prove to you that I know there is going to be war.” And the women, holding their blue bundles on their knees in the crowded compartment—for in democratic France d

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emos is not allowed the luxury of luggage-racks—looked at the future with anxious eyes. What would become of them? The government would take their men. Their men would be killed or maimed. Even if the men returned safe and sound, in the meantime, how would they live? Ah, mon Dieu! Cette rosse de guer

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re! They cursed the war as t

hough it were a foul and con

scious entity. The interminable journey, by day, by night, with tedious waits at great ghostly junctions, at last was over. Martin emerged from the station of Brant?me and immediately bef

ore him stood the familiar r

amshackle omnibus of the H?tel des Grottes. Old Grégoire, the driver, on beholding him staggered back and almost fell over the step of the vehicle. “Monsieur Martin! C’est vous?” Recovering, he advanced with great, sun-glazed hand. “Yes. It is indeed I,” laughed Martin. “It is every

body that will be content,” cried Grégoire. “How one has talked of you, a

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