dyes, perfumes, brillantine, and torn towels, and an odor of aperitifs
and cologne over it all.

Every one pretends not to know when it happened. They say, "It was
found like that one morning." Every one goes to look at it--no one
enters, no one touches anything. They simply say with a smile of scorn,
"Good--and so well done."

There are so many things that I wish you could see. They would give you
such a new point of view regarding this race--traditionally so gay, so
indifferent to many things that you consider moral, so fond of their
individual comfort and personal pleasure, and often so rebellious to
discipline. You would be surprised--surprised at their unity, surprised
at their seriousness, and often touched by their philosophical
acceptance of it all.

Amelie has a stepson and daughter. The boy--named Marius--like his
father plays the violin. Like many humble musicians his music is his
life and he adds handsomely to his salary as a clerk by playing at
dances and little concerts, and by giving lessons in the evening. Like
his father he is very timid. But he accepted the war without a word,
though nothing is more foreign to his nature. It brought it home to
me--this rising up of a Nation in self-defense. It is not the marching
into battle of an army that has chosen soldiering. It is the marching
out of all the people--of every temperament--the rich, the poor, the
timid and the bold, the sensitive and the hardened, the ignorant and the
scholar--all men, because they happen to be males, called on not only to
cry, "Vive la France," but to see to it that she does live if dying for
her can keep her alive. It is a compelling idea, isn't it?