Another woman claimed his attention.
Nicole came back to Howard and the children with the tickets:
'Only as far as Rennes,' she said, in coarse peasant tones.
'That is as far as this train goes.'
The old man said: 'Eh?' and wagged his sagging head.
She shouted in his ear.
'Only to Rennes.'
He mumbled thickly: 'We do not want to go to Rennes.'
She made a gesture of irritation and pushed him ahead of her to the barrier.
A German soldier stood by the ticket-puncher; the old man checked and turned back to the girl in senile bewilderment.
She said something cross and pushed him through.
Then she apologised to the ticket-puncher.
'He is my uncle,' she said.
'He is a good old man, but he is more trouble to me than all these children.'
The man said: 'Rennes. On the right,' and passed them through.
The German stared at them indifferently; one set of refugees was very like another.
So they passed through on to the platform and climbed into a very old compartment with hard wooden seats.
Ronnie said: 'Is this the train we're going to sleep in, M'sieur Howard?'
He spoke in French, however.
Howard said: 'Not tonight.
We shan't be in this train for very long.'
But he was wrong.
From Chartres to Rennes is about two hundred and sixty kilometres; it took them six hours.
In the hot summer afternoon the train stopped at every station, and many times between.
The body of the train was full of German soldiers travelling to the west; three coaches at the end were reserved for French civilians and they travelled in one of these.
Sometimes the compartment was shared with other travellers for a few stations, but no one travelled with them continuously.
It was an anxious journey, full of fears and subterfuges.
When there were other people with them in the carriage the old man lapsed into senility, and Nicole would explain their story once again, how they were travelling to Landerneau from their house in Arras, which had been destroyed by the British.
At first there was difficulty with the children, who were by no means inclined to lend support to what they rightly knew to be a pack of lies.
Each time the story was retold Nicole and Howard rode on a knife edge of suspense, their attention split between the listener and the necessity of preventing the children from breaking into the conversation.
Presently the children lost interest, and became absorbed in running up and down the corridor, playing 'My great-aunt lives in Tours,' with all its animal repetitions, and looking out of the window.
In any event, the peasants and small shopkeepers who travelled with them were too anxious to start talking and to tell the story of their own troubles to have room for much suspicion in their minds.
At long last, when the fierce heat of the day was dying down, they pulled into Rennes.
There the train stopped and everyone got out; the German soldiers fell in in two ranks in orderly array on the platform and were marched away, leaving a fatigue party to load their kits on to a lorry.
There was a German officer by the ticket-collector.
Howard put on his most senile air, and Nicole went straight up to the collector to consult him about trains to Landerneau.
Through half-closed eyes Howard watched her, the children clustered round him, dirty and fretful from their journey.
He waited in an agony of apprehension; at any moment the officer might ask for papers.
Then it would all be over.
But finally he gave her a little pasteboard slip, shrugged his shoulders and dismissed her.
She came back to Howard.
'Mother of God!' she said crossly and rather loudly.
'Where is now the pram?
Do I have to do everything?'
The pram was still in the baggage-car.
The old man shambled towards it, but she pushed him aside and got into the car and pulled it down on to the ground herself.
Then, in a little confused huddle, she shepherded them to the barrier.
'It is not five children that I have,' she said bitterly to the ticket-collector. 'It is six.'
The man laughed, and the German officer smiled faintly.
So they passed out into the town of Rennes.