the War Zone, although as we passed the fortifications we saw men
standing beside the upward pointing guns, and I was told that this
vigilance does not relax day or night.

Later, I shall have much to say about the éclopés, but it is enough
to explain here that "éclopé," in the new adaptation of the word,
stands for a man who is not wounded, or ill enough for a military
hospital, but for whom a brief rest in comfortable quarters is
imperative. The stations provided for them, principally through the
instrumentality of another remarkable Frenchwoman, Mlle. Javal, now
number about one hundred and thirty, and are either behind the lines
or in the neighborhood of Paris or other large cities. The one we
visited, Le Bourget, is among the largest and most important, and the
Commandant, M. de L'Horme, is as interested as a father in his
children. The yard when we arrived was full of soldiers, some about to
march out and entrain for the front, others still loafing, and M. de
L'Horme seemed to know each by name.

The comfort packages are always given to the men returning to their
regiments on that particular day. They are piled high on a long table
at one side of the barrack yard, and behind it on the day of my visit
stood Madame Balli, Mrs. Allen, Mr. Holman-Black and myself, and we
handed out packages with a "Bonne chance" as the men filed by. Some
were sullen and unresponsive, but many more looked as pleased as
children and no doubt were as excited over their "grabs," which they
were not to open until in the train. They would face death on the
morrow, but for the moment at least they were personal and titillated.

Close by was a small munition factory, and a large loft had been
turned into a rest-room for such of the éclopés as it was thought