Should the invader reach a certain point within ten miles of the district she must fly.
All that night the aviators kept coming with messages, and in the early dawn they started. She was up and saw the cavalcade winding away through the park. She stood in the porch to wish them God-speed. The young men were full of ardour. They were going forth to meet the enemy. The General was grave. When he had reached the public road, he sent one of his aide-de-camps riding back at a gallop. Was it a premonition of disaster, or had secret news reached him by some emissary from the field of conflict? The message to her was, that she was to be gone at once with her family. At once!
The young husband had already departed at break of day in their automobile. He and his machine had been offered to the service of the country and accepted. The mother, with her four little children--among them the sturdy, two-year-old Viviane--had to walk to the station, with what luggage could be got together and trundled down in a wheelbarrow. Luckily it was not far--their own station just outside the park-gates. They got the last train that ran from that doomed spot. The German guns were within earshot as they steamed away.
In their hurry they had forgotten to bring any milk or water for the baby girl. The heat was suffocating. The only thing that could be laid hold of was a bottle of white wine which someone had thrust into a bag. Vivi clamoured, and they gave her half a glassful in the end. She enjoyed it very much, and it did not disagree with her at all.
The men in their blue garb listen to some of this story with profound attention. They have a very touching, respectful, earnest way of talking to the Belgian lady, and are very anxious to impress upon her that soon they will have her country cleared of the enemy.
“You tell her that, miss. She do believe it, don’t she? We’re going to sweep them out in no time. Tell her that, miss. That’s what we’re over there for. She’ll soon be able to get back there--back in her own home.”
One of them gazes at her for a while in a kind of brooding silence, and then says huskily:
“Isn’t it a mercy you got away, ma’am--you and your little children!”
Then Viviane is called upon to sing “Tipperary.”