OVER THERE

War Scenes on the Western Front

By ARNOLD BENNETT






I The Zone Of Paris


From the balcony you look down upon massed and variegated tree-
tops as though you were looking down upon a valley forest from a
mountain height. Those trees, whose hidden trunks make alleys and
squares, are rooted in the history of France. On the dusty gravel of
the promenade which runs between the garden and the street a
very young man and a girl, tiny figures, are playing with rackets at
one of those second-rate ball games beloved by the French petite
bourgeoisie. Their jackets and hats are hung on the corner of the
fancy wooden case in which an orange-tree is planted. They are
certainly perspiring in the heavy heat of the early morning. They are
also certainly in love. This lively dalliance is the preliminary to a
day's desk-work. It seems ill-chosen, silly, futile. The couple have
forgotten, if they ever knew, that they are playing at a terrific and
long-drawn moment of crisis in a spot sacred to the finest
civilisation.