From the windows of the two cars the ladies leaned out and nodded awkwardly to each other. The cars, spared from being requisitioned, were old and enormous. Each of them tried slyly to overtake and lose the other, but as soon as they were on the national highway they were forced into line, one behind the other, and had to wait their turn. It was the day after a battle had been lost. They could see the troops passing before them in chaos: ambulances, the wounded, cars, horses, cannons and, among them, the civilians who were fleeing — nuns from a convent in Flanders, farmers pulling along their cows, old people pulling carts on which were two chairs, a pine table and kitchen utensils held in place with planks of wood. All they could do was inch forward. Every now and again they recognised someone from Saint-Elme in this confusing flow of people. ‘I thought I saw the notary and his wife,’ said Charles. ‘There are the little Dubecq children, in an English carriage, with their grandmother,’ replied Madame Florent.
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