But the day was dull--the summit of the Eiffel Tower was hooded in a

cloud of fog and a cold blast swept over the Place de La Concorde which

froze me to the marrow. I kept on, however, somewhat protected by the

arcades of the rue de Rivoli, expecting to see, at least, familiar faces

in the shop-keepers of that gay, little Rialto--but the doors were all

closed and the blinds down. One place was open--the art shop of the

little, old, white-haired man with the twinkling eyes, who has sold me

marvellous Venus de Milos, etc., times without number. I greeted him

with real feeling and enthusiasm, for here was somebody I knew. He did

not recognize me and stared dully, without answering, as one who is

dazed; he was unshaven and dirty, his usually clear eye was lifeless and

his face was thin and drawn. Could it be that he had not enough to eat,

or was it despair? He must have had nephews and perhaps sons and

grandsons at the front. But do the people who stay at home change like

that? I went on--the Hotel Meurice was closed; the Continentale had a

section open for the Red Cross; the Bristol was closed; the Ritz was

made into an Ambulance; not a living soul on the Place Vendome. All the

famous hat shops were closed--who would have a reason to buy hats? All

the big dressmakers were closed and every jewelry shop but two in all

that dazzling, brilliant rue de la Paix was closed. There were perhaps a

dozen people on the Boulevards, a single taxicab crawled listlessly out

of a side street, but not an omnibus to be seen. They, like all the

world, had left for the "front" and will go down in history as having

transferred the valiant French army in all haste to Victory on the

Battlefield of the Marne.

The only thing unchanged was the Opera, which stood there, in all its

splendor, looking on at the grievous spectacle of Paris, in anguish.

Will she live? Can she die? Is the burden of her woes too great? O,

Beautiful City of Dreams! Some call you very wicked--you, whose brave

smile has endured through all your sorrows. Is that so little? And the

valor of your Sons--was it ever surpassed? Did one of the hundreds, one

of the thousands, one of the millions, hesitate the fraction of an

instant at your call?

O, Paris! Inimitable Paris! with the death shadow on your lovely



| Transcriber's Note: |

| |

| Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the |

| original document have been preserved. |

| |

| Typographical errors corrected in the text: |

| |

| Page 9 interment changed to internment |

| Page 52 officiers changed to officers |

| Page 67 Kommandatur changed to Kommandantur |

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