It was nine o'clock when
we arrived, to find that there should be a train at half past. The
station was full. I hunted up the chef de gare, and asked him if I
could be sure of being able to return if I went up to Paris.
He looked at me in perfect amazement.
"You want to come back?" he asked.
"Sure," I replied.
"You can," he answered, "if you take a train about four o'clock. That
may be the last."
I very nearly said, "Jiminy-cricket!"
The train ran into the station on time, but you never saw such a sight.
It was packed as the Brookline street-cars used to be on the days of a
baseball game. Men were absolutely hanging on the roof; women were
packed on the steps that led up to the imperials to the third-class
coaches. It was a perilous-looking sight. I opened a dozen
coaches--all packed, standing room as well as seats, which is ordinarily
against the law. I was about to give it up when a man said to me,
"Madame, there are some coaches at the rear that look as if they were
empty."
I made a dash down the long platform, yanked open a door, and was about
to ask if I might get in, when I saw that the coach was full of wounded
soldiers in khaki, lying about on the floor as well as the seats.
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