"Two days old will do here," then she became all interest in my project
again and chuckled anew.
"Not a novel my son, at your age and with your temperament, it would
arouse emotions in you if you created them in your characters, you are
better without them.--No!--Something serious; Altruism as well as
another, by all means!"
"I expected you to say that, you are always so practical and kind, then
we will choose a research subject to keep me busy."
"Why not the history of Blankshire, your old county where the Thormondes
have sat since the conquest--_hein_?"
This delighted me, but I saw the impossibility. "I cannot get at the
necessary reference books, and it is impossible to receive anything from
England."
She realized this before I spoke.
"No--philosophy it must be--or your pet hobby, the furniture of your
William and Mary!"
This seemed the best of all, and I decided in a moment. This shall be my
subject. I really know something of William and Mary furniture! So we
settled it. Then she became reflective.
"The news is _très grave_ to-day, my son," she whispered softly, "the
fearful ones predict that the Boche will be within range in a few
days.--Why not leave Paris?"
"Are you going, Duchesse?"
"I,--_Mon Dieu!_--Of course not!--I must stay to get my _Blessés_
out--if the worst should come--but I never believe it.--Let the cowards
flee--. Some of my relatives have gone again. Those I speak to will have
become a minority when peace arrives, it would seem!"--then she frowned
angrily. "Many are so splendid--devoted, untiring, but there are
some--!--_Mon Dieu!_ the girls play tennis at the _tix aux
pigeons_!--and the Germans are sixty-five kilometers from Paris!"
I did not speak, and then, as though I had said something disparaging
and she must defend them--"But you must not judge them hardly--No!--it
is not possible with our National temperament that young girls of the
world can nurse men--No--No--and our ministry of War won't employ
women--what can they do--ask yourself, what can they do?--but wait and
pray! Other nations must not judge us--our men know what they want of
us--yes, yes--"
"Of course they do."
"My niece Madelaine--a lighthead--dragged me to the Ritz to lunch last
week, before the wild rush cleared them off again--_Mon Dieu!_ what a
sight there in that restaurant!--Olivier and the waiters are the only
things of dignity left! The women dressed to the eyes as Red Cross
nurses. Some Americans, and, yes, French--nursing the well English
officers I must believe--no nearer wounded than that!--floating veils,
painted lips--high heels--Heavens! it filled me with rage--I who know
the devoted and good of both nations who are not seen, and you
English--. But there it is easy for you with your temperament to be
good and really work--France is full of sensible kind Americans and
English--but those in Paris--they make me sick! Quarter of an hour twice
a day--to have the right to a passport to come--and to wear a
uniform--Pah! Sick, sick!--"
I thought of the fluffies!--they too played at something the first year
of the war, but now have given up even the pretence of that.
The Duchesse was still angry.
"My nephew Charles, le Prince de Vimont, eats chicken and cutlets on the
meatless days, he told me with pride, his _maître d'hôtel_--he of the
one eye--like thou, Nicholas, is able to procure plenty on the day
before from friends in the trade, and with ice--_Mon Dieu!_--and I pay
twenty-eight francs apiece for the best poulets for my _blessés_ for
extra rations!--and ice!--impossible to procure--. Oh! I would punish
them all, choke them with their own meat--it is they who should be "food
for the guns" as you English say,--they, these few disgrace our brave
France, and make the other nations laugh at us."
I tried to assure her that no one laughed, and that we all understood
and worshipped the spirit of France, that it was only the few, and that
we were not deceived, but I could not calm her.
"It makes me weep" at last she said and I could not comfort her.
"Heloise de Tavantaine--my Cousin's Jew daughter-in-law--paid four
thousand francs for a new evening dress, which did not cover a tenth of
her fat body--Four thousand francs would have given my
_blessés_--Ah!--well--I rage, I rage."
Then she checked herself--.
"But why do I say this to thee Nicholas?--because I am sore--it is ever
thus--we are all human, and must cry to someone."
So after all there is some meaning in my journal.
"_One must cry to someone!_"
* * * * *
Burton is delighted that I shall write a book!--He wrote at once to my
aunt Emmeline to tell her that I was better. I have her letter with
congratulations in it to-day. Burton does the correspondence with my few
relations, all war working hard in England. I am becoming quite excited,
I long to begin, but there is no use until Maurice finds me a
stenographer. He has heard of two. One a Miss Jenkins, aged
forty--sounds good, but she can only give three hours a day--and I must
have one at my beck and call--There is a second one, a Miss Sharp--but
she is only twenty-three--plain though, Maurice says, and wears horn
spectacles--that should not attract me! She makes bandages all the
evening, but is obliged to work for her living so could come for the
day. She is not out of a job, because she is very expert, but she does
not like her present one. I would have to pay her very highly Maurice
says--I don't mind that, I want the best.--I had better see Miss Sharp,
and judge if I can stand her. She may have a personality I could not
work with. Maurice must bring her to-morrow.
The news to-night is worse.--The banks have sent away all their
securities.--But I shall not leave--one might as well die in a
bombardment as any other way. The English Consul has to know all the
names of the English residents in case of evacuation. But I will not go.
Bertha is making a most fiendish noise, there were two raids last
night,--and she began at six this morning--one gets little sleep. I have
a one horse Victoria now, driven by Methusala; I picked Maurice up at
the Ritz this evening at nine o'clock--there was not a human soul to be
seen in the _Rue de la Paix_, or the _Place Vendôme_, or the _Rue
Castiglione_--a city of the dead--And the early June sky full of peace
and soft light.
What does it all mean?