heart.

I heard only the friendliest criticism of the Russians.

It is a rather delicate task to say what the French think of the
Americans, for the real truth is that they think of us but rarely. Our
quarrel with Germany over the submarines interested them somewhat, but
this interest rapidly died away when it became evident that we were not
going to do anything about it. They see our flag over countless charity
dépôts, hospitals, and benevolent institutions, and are grateful. The
poilu would be glad to see us in the fray simply because of the aid we
should bring, but he is reasonable enough to know that the United States
can keep out of the mêlée without losing any moral prestige. The only
hostile criticism of America that I heard came from doctrinaires who saw
the war as a conflict between autocracy and democracy, and if you grant
that this point of view is the right one, these thinkers have a right to
despise us. But the Frenchman knows that the Allies represent something
more than "virtue-on-a-rampage."

In Lyons I saw a sight at once ludicrous and pathetic. Two little
dragoons of the class of 1917, stripling boys of eighteen or nineteen at
the most, walked across the public square; their uniforms were too large
for them, the skirts of their great blue mantles barely hung above the
dust of the street, and their enormous warlike helmets and flowing
horse-tails were ill-suited to their boyish heads. As I looked at them,
I thought of the blue bundles I had seen drying upon the barbed wire,
and felt sick at the brutality of the whole awful business. The sun was
shining over the bluish mists of Lyons, and the bell of old Saint-Jean
was ringing. Two Zouaves, stone blind, went by guided by a little, fat
infirmier. At the frontier, the General Staff was preparing the defense