He would have loved his Paris as we found it. Life was
renewing itself in the streets, whose drawing and proportion
one could never notice before. People's eyes, and the women's
especially, seemed to be set to a longer range, a more
comprehensive gaze. One would have said they came from the
sea or the mountains, where things are few and simple, rather
than from houses. Best of all, there were no foreigners--the
beloved city for the first time was French throughout from end
to end. It felt like coming back to an old friend's house for
a quiet talk after he had got rid of a houseful of visitors.
The functionaries and police had dropped their masks of
official politeness, and were just friendly. At the hotels,
so like school two days before the term begins, the impersonal
valet, the chambermaid of the set two-franc smile, and the
unbending head-waiter had given place to one's own brothers
and sisters, full of one's own anxieties. "My son is an
aviator, monsieur. I could have claimed Italian nationality
for him at the beginning, but he would not have it." . . .
"Both my brothers, monsieur, are at the war. One is dead
already. And my fiance, I have not heard from him since
March. He is cook in a battalion." . . . "Here is the
wine-list, monsieur. Yes, both my sons and a nephew, and--I
have no news of them, not a word of news. My God, we all
suffer these days." And so, too, among the shops--the mere
statement of the loss or the grief at the heart, but never a
word of doubt, never a whimper of despair.
"Now why," asked a shopkeeper, "does not our Government, or
your Government, or both our Governments, send some of the
British Army to Paris? I assure you we should make them
welcome."
"Perhaps," I began, "you might make them too welcome."
He laughed. "We should make them as welcome as our own army.
They would enjoy themselves." I had a vision of British
officers, each with ninety days' pay to his credit, and a
damsel or two at home, shopping consumedly.
"And also," said the shopkeeper, "the moral effect on Paris to
see more of your troops would be very good."
But I saw a quite English Provost-Marshal losing himself in
chase of defaulters of the New Army who knew their Paris!
Still, there is something to be said for the idea--to the
extent of a virtuous brigade or so. At present, the English
officer in Paris is a scarce bird, and he explains at once why
he is and what he is doing there. He must have good reasons.
I suggested teeth to an acquaintance. "No good," he grumbled.
"They've thought of that, too. Behind our lines is simply
crawling with dentists now!"