The First Day

Neeland had undressed, bathed his somewhat battered body, and had then
thrown himself on the bed, fully intending to rise in a few moments
and await breakfast.

But it was a very weary young man who stretched himself out for ten
minutes' repose. And, when again he unclosed his eyes, the austere
clock on the mantel informed him that it was five--not five in the
morning either.

He had slept through the first day of general mobilisation.

Across the lowered latticed blinds late afternoon sunshine struck red.
The crests of the chestnut trees in the rue Soleil d'Or had turned
rosy; and a delicate mauve sky, so characteristic of Paris in early
autumn, already stretched above the city like a frail tent of silk
from which fragile cobweb clouds hung, tinted with saffron and palest
rose.

Hoisting the latteen shades, he looked out through lace curtains into
the most silent city he had ever beheld. Not that the streets and
avenues were deserted: they swarmed with hurrying, silent people and
with taxicabs.

Never had he seen so many taxicabs; they streamed by everywhere,
rushing at high speed. They passed through the rue Soleil d'Or; the
rue de la Lune fairly whizzed with them; the splendid avenue was
merely a vista of flying taxis; and in every one of them there was a
soldier.

Otherwise, except for cyclists, there seemed to be very few soldiers
in Paris--an odd fact immediately noticeable.