in my life. I could not tear myself away, although I found it
impossible to put my material into shape there. Not only was I on the
go all day long, seeing this and that oeuvre, having personal
interviews with heads of important organizations, taken about by the
kind and interested friends my own interest made for me, but when
night came I was too tired to do more than enter all the information I
had accumulated during the day in a notebook, and then go to bed. I
have seldom taken notes, but I was determined that whatever else my
book might be it should at least be accurate, and I also collected all
the literature (leaflets, pamphlets, etc.) of the various oeuvres (as
all these war relief organizations are called) and packed them into
carefully superscribed large brown envelopes with a meticulousness
that is, alas, quite foreign to my native disposition.

When, by the way, I opened my trunk to pack it and saw those dozen or
more large square brown envelopes I was appalled. They looked so
important, so sinister, they seemed to mutter of State secrets, war
maps, spy data. I knew that trunks were often searched at Bordeaux,
and I knew that if mine were those envelopes never would leave France.
I should be fortunate to sail away myself.

But I must have my notes. To remember all that I had from day to day
gathered was an impossibility. I have too good a memory not to
distrust it when it comes to a mass of rapidly accumulated
information; combined with imagination and enthusiasm it is sure to
play tricks.

But I had an inspiration. The Ministry of War had been exceedingly
kind to me. Convinced that I was a "Friend of France," they had
permitted me to go three times into the War Zone, the last time