The rolling Normandy landscape lay bathed in golden sunshine, the
wheatfields ripe for the sickle, and the apple orchards rich in their
promise of fruit. There was not one breath of wind to ruffle the sleek
surface of the Mayenne, and the wealth of timber of leafy Normandy
stood out faintly blue over the tawny stretches of the wheatfields.
The whole scene, flooded with mellow sunshine, seemed to breathe
absolute peace.
Suddenly, from a distant church steeple, came two sharp strokes from a
bell, then a pause, and then two strokes were repeated. The town we
had just left rang out two louder notes, also followed by a pause. It
was the _tocsin_ ringing out its terrible message; and yet another
steeple sounded its two notes, and another and another. The news rung
out by those two sharp strokes is always bad news. The _tocsin_ rings
for great fires, for revolution, or, as in this case, for a Declaration
of War. Before us lay Normandy, looking inexpressibly peaceful in the
evening sunlight, and over that quiet countryside the _tocsin_ was
sending its tidings of woe, as it was from every church tower in
France. Next morning the only son, the gardener, the coachman, and the
man-servant left the old Norman chateau to join their regiments; the
son and the gardener never to return to it.
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