But the Belgians did mind. They said they’d fight. It had not occurred to the German High Command that this comfortable little kingdom would be so valiant.

And Britain had a treaty with Belgium. A cast-iron treaty, to defend it if Belgium was attacked. Britain, therefore, entered the war at once.

Thus, in the first days of August 1914, all the tottering structures erected to preserve the peace of old Europe came crashing down. No one could have foreseen that it would happen this way.

By the first days of September, Thomas Gascon was in a quandary. Though delayed by the tough Belgian resistance, the German army was in France, its advance guard less than fifty miles from Paris. And every Parisian knew what that meant.

“It’ll be 1870 all over again. Paris will fall. Get out while you can.”

The government got out. Leaving the capital in a hurry, they all headed south for Gascony and the great port of Bordeaux, hoping they might be safe down there.

Thomas Gascon had watched in disgust as the motor cars of the officials sped past the wagons and handcarts of the poor.

“Even if we leave,” he said to Édith, “I don’t know where we’d go.”

And then a remarkable thing happened. It was his eldest son, Robert, who brought the news.

At the age of sixteen, Thomas’s younger son Pierre was already taller than his father. A handsome boy, with a freckled face a little like his mother’s. But when people saw Thomas and Robert standing side by side, they smiled with amusement. For Robert was a perfect reproduction of his father. “I have more hair than you,” Robert would point out to Thomas cheerfully, but his uncle Luc would tell him not to expect this difference to last. “You look exactly the way your father did when he was working on the Statue of Liberty. So in twenty-five years, you can expect to look the same way he does now,” his uncle said. Thomas and Robert had the same physical toughness, the same love of work in the open air, even the same sense of humor. Since Robert was grown up, father and son enjoyed nothing more than going out for a drink in a bar together.

At the age of eighteen, Robert had been conscripted. Now he was part of the reserve.

“General Joffre is regrouping. He refuses to give up,” he told his family excitedly. “The British are with us on our northern flank. Joffre thinks we can drive them back at the Marne. We’re all being called to the front for an attack. Will you come and see me off tomorrow?” He grinned. “There’s transport laid on for some of the boys. But personally I’ll be taking a taxi.”

It was an extraordinary maneuver. Ten thousand reservists were being called to the front. The army had transports for only four thousand. The solution? Taxis.