Those were Summer days, and in spite of the political and martial
excitement, the peaceful woods and parks in the environs of Paris were
tempting. From the Quartier Latin many a couple secretly found their
way to the forests of St. Germain, or the lovely wood at Chantilly. In
the morning one bought a roast fowl and a bottle of wine, then spent
the greater part of the day under the beautiful oak-trees, and sat down
to one's meal in the pleasant green shade. Now and again one of the
young women would make a wreath of oak leaves and twine it round her
companion's straw hat, while he, bareheaded, lay gazing up at the
tree-tops. For a long time I kept just such a wreath as a remembrance,
and its withered leaves roused melancholy reflections some years later,
for during the war every tree of the Chantilly wood had been felled;
the wreath was all that remained of the magnificent oak forest.