Worried and distracted by the chatter of the children, he tried to plan his course. To go on to Montargis seemed the only thing to do, but was he wise to do it? Would it not be better to try and travel back to Dijon? The route that he had been given through Montargis to Chartres was quite a sensible one according to his Baedeker; it lay along ar good main road for the whole of the hundred miles or so to Chartres. This bus would give him a good lift of thirty-five or forty miles on the way, so that by the time he left it he would be within sixty miles of Chartres and the railway to St Malo; provided he could get a bus to carry him that sixty miles he would be quite all right. If all went well he would reach Chartres that night, and St Malo the next morning; then the cross-channel boat and he would be home in England.
It seemed all right, but was it really wise? He could get back to Dijon, possibly, though even that did not seem very certain. But if he got back there, what then? With the Germans driving forward into France from the north,, and the Italians coming up from the south, Dijon seemed to be between two fires. He could not stay indefinitely in Dijon. It was better, surely, to take courage and go forward in the bus, by north and west in the direction of the Channel and home.
The bus became filled with a hot, sweating crowd of French country people. All were agitated and upset, all bore enormous packages with them, all were heading to the west. Howard took Sheila on his knee to make more room and squeezed Ronnie standing up between his legs. Rose pressed up against him, and an enormous woman with a very small infant in her arms shared the seat with them. From the conversation of the people in the bus Howard learned that the Germans were still pouring on, but that Paris would be defended to the last. Nobody knew how far the Germans had advanced, how near to Joigny they might be. It was wise to move, to go and stay with relations farther to the west.
One man said: 'The Chamber has left Paris. It is now at Tours.' Somebody else said that that rumour was not true, and a desultory argument began. Nobody seemed to take much interest in the Chamber; Paris and the life of cities meant very little to these peasants and near-peasants.
It was suffocatingly hot in the bus. The two English children stood it better than Howard could have expected; la petite Rose seemed to be more affected than they were. Howard, looking down, saw that she had gone very white. He bent towards her.
'Are you tired?' he said kindly. She shook her head mutely. He turned and struggled with the window at his side; presently he succeeded in opening it a little and letting in a current of warm, fresh air.
Presently the driver climbed into his seat, and the grossly overloaded vehicle lumbered from the square.
The movement brought a little more air into the bus.
They left the town after a couple of stops, carrying an additional load of people on the roof. They started out along the long straight roads of France, dusty and in poor repair. The dust swirled round the heavy vehicle; it drove in at the open window, powdering them all. Ronnie, standing between the old man's legs, clung to the window, avid for all that he could see; Howard turned Sheila on his lap with difficulty, so that she could see out too.
Beside him, presently, Rose made a little wailing cry. Howard looked down, and saw her face white with a light greenish hue; before he could do anything to help her she had vomited on the floor.
For a moment he was startled and disgusted. Then patience came back to him; children couldn't help that sort of thing. She was coughing and weeping; he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped her face and comforted her.
'Pauvre petite chou,' he said awkwardly. 'You will be better now. It is the heat.'
With some struggling he moved Sheila over and lifted Rose up on his knee, so that she could see out and have more air. She was still crying bitterly; he wiped her eyes and talked to her as gently as he could. The broad woman by him smiled serenely, quite unmoved by the disaster.
'It is the rocking,' she said in soft Midland French, 'like the sea. Always I have been sick when, as a little girl, I have travelled. Always, always. In the train and in the bus, always, quite the same.' She bent down. 'Sois tranquille, ma petite,' she said. 'It is nothing, that.'
Rose glanced up at her, and stopped crying. Howard chose the cleanest corner of his handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Thereafter she sat very quiet and subdued on his knee, watching the slowly moving scene outside the window.
'I'm never sick in motor-cars,' said Ronnie proudly in English. The woman looked at them with new curiosity; hitherto they had spoken in French.
The road was full of traffic, all heading to the west. Old battered motor-cars, lorries, mule carts, donkey-carts, all were loaded to disintegration point with people making for Montargis. These wound in and out among the crowds of people pushing hand-carts, perambulators, wheelbarrows even, all loaded with their goods. It was incredible to Howard; it seemed as though the whole countryside were in flight before the armies. The women working in the fields looked up from time to time in pauses of their work to stare at the strange cavalcade on the highway. Then they bent again to the harvest of their roots; the work in hand was more important than the strange tides that flowed on the road.
Halfway to Montargis the bus heeled slowly to the near side. The driver wrestled with the steering; a clattering bump, rhythmic, came from the near back wheel. The vehicle drew slowly to a stop beside the road.
The driver got down from his seat to have a look. Then he walked slowly back to the entrance to the bus. 'Un pneu,' he said succinctly, 'il faut descende - tout le monde. We must change the wheel.'
Howard got down with relief. They had been sitting in the bus for nearly two hours, of which an hour had been on the road. The children were hot and tired and fretful; a change would obviously be a good thing. He took them one by one behind a little bush in decent manner; a proceeding which did not escape the little crowd of passengers collected by the bus. They nudged each other. 'C'est un anglais...'
The driver, helped by a couple of passengers, wrestled to jack up the bus and get the flat wheel off. Howard watched them working for a little time; then it occurred to him that this was a good opportunity to give the children tea. He fetched his parcel of food from the rack, and took the children a few yards up the road from the crowd. He sat them down on the grass verge in the shade of a tree, and gave them sandwiches and milk.
The road stretched out towards the west, dead straight. As far as he could see it was thronged with vehicles, all moving the same way. He felt it really was a most extraordinary sight, a thing that he had never seen before, a population in migration.
Presently Rose said she heard an aeroplane.
Instinctively, Howard turned his head. He could hear nothing.
'I hear it,' Ronnie said. 'Lots of aeroplanes.'
Sheila said: 'I want to hear the aeroplane.'
'Silly,' said Ronnie. 'There's lots of them. Can't you hear?'
The old man strained his ears, but he could hear nothing. 'Can you see where they are?' he asked, nonchalantly. A cold fear lurked in the background of his mind.
The children scanned the sky. 'V'là,' said Rose, pointing suddenly. Trots avions - là.'
Ronnie twisted round in excitement to Howard. 'They're coming down towards us! Do you think we'll see them close?'
'Where are they?' he enquired. He strained his eyes in the direction from which they had come. 'Oh, I see. They won't come anywhere near here. Look, they're going down over there.'