and the Vosges, shrouded in mountain mists. This is about Lorraine
in winter, when the war was six months old.

But first, on our way, a word about Paris, which I had not seen since
September. At the outset of the war, Parisians who had not gone to
the front were in a trance of suspense; they were magnetized by the
tragic possibilities of the hour. The fear of disaster was in their hearts,
though they might deny it to themselves. They could think of nothing
but France. Now they realized that the best way to help France was
by going on with their work at home. Paris was trying to be normal,
but no Parisian was making the bluff that Paris was normal. The
Gallic lucidity of mind prevented such self-deception.

Is it normal to have your sons, brothers, and husbands up to their
knees in icy water in the trenches, in danger of death every minute?
This attitude seems human; it seems logical. One liked the French for
it. One liked them for boasting so little. In their effort at normality
they had accomplished more than they realized; for one-sixth of
the wealth of France was in German hands. A line of steel made
the rest safe for those not at the front to pursue the routine of peace.

When I had been in Paris in September there was no certainty about
railroad connections anywhere. You went to the station and took your
chances, governed by the movement of troops, not to mention other
conditions. This time I took the regular noon express to Nancy, as I
might have done to Marseilles, or Rome, or Madrid, had I chosen.
The sprinkling of quiet army officers on the train were in the new
uniform of peculiar steely grey, in place of the target blue and red. But
for them and the number of women in mourning and one other
circumstance, the train might have been bound for Berlin, with Nancy