reading "Punch" and sipping red wine in Britannic isolation. Across the
street an immense poster announced, "Conference in aid of the Belgian
Red Cross--the German Outrages in Louvain, Malines, and
Liège--illustrated."

We finished our dinner, which was good and not costly, and started to
walk to our hotel. Hardly had we turned the corner of the Place, when
the life of Bordeaux went out like a torch extinguished by the wind. It
was still early in the evening, there was a sound of an orchestra
somewhere behind, yet ahead of us, lonely and still, with its shops
closed and its sidewalks deserted, was one of the greater streets of
Bordeaux. Through the drawn curtains of second stories over little
groceries and baker-shops shone the yellow light of lamps. What had
happened to the Jean, Paul, and Pierre of this dark street since the war
began? What tragedies of sorrow and loneliness might these silent
windows not conceal? And every French city is much the same; one notices
in them all the subtle lack of youth, and the animation of the great
squares in contrast to the somber loneliness of streets and quarters
which once were alive and gay. At the Place de l'Opéra in Paris, the
whirlpool of Parisian life is still turning, but the great streets
leading away from the Place de l'Étoile are quiet. Young and old,
laborer and shopkeeper, boulevardier and apache are far away holding the
tragic lines.

The next morning at the station, I had my first glimpse of that mighty
organization which surrounds the militaire. There was a special entrance
for soldiers and a special exit for soldiers, and at both of these a
long file of blue-clad poilus waited for the countersigning of their
furlough slips and military tickets. The mud of the trenches still
stained the bottom edges of their overcoats, and their steel helmets