One saw the Rhine-Marne Canal,
too, and the picturesque roofs of old fifteenth-century houses, huddled
together in lower Bar-le-Duc, shut in among the vine-draped valleys of
Champagne.
As we left the car and went into the hotel (I lingering behind to help
Brian) I noticed another car behind us. It was more like a taxi-cab than
a brave, free-born automobile, but it had evidently come a long way, as
it was covered with dust, and from its rather ramshackle roof waved a
Red Cross flag.
In the good days before the war I should have thought it the most
natural thing on earth if a procession of twenty motors had trailed us.
But war has put an end to joy-rides. Besides, since the outskirts of
Paris, we had been in the _zone de guerre_, constantly stopped and
stared at by sentinels. The only cars we passed, going east or west,
were occupied by officers, or crowded with _poilus_, therefore the
shabby little taxi became of almost startling interest. I looked back,
and saw that it was slowing down close behind our imposing auto, from
which a few small pieces of luggage for the night were being removed.
The Red Cross travellers were evidently impatient. They did not wait for
our chauffeur to drive away. The conductor of the car jumped down and
opened the door of his nondescript vehicle. I made out, under a thick
coat of dust, that he wore khaki of some sort, and a cap of military
shape which might be anything from British to Belgian.
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