The next morning at 5.30 I crept down six flights of stairs in the pitch dark. By the light of a candle in the lobby an old woman gave me a cup of black coffee and a hunk of bread. I drank the coffee and took the bread and went out into the blue black of just-before-dawn. The street was deserted, and I munched my bread as I hurried along. My adventure was beginning! Arriving at La Place de la Concorde I could see the obelisk and the yawning guns silhouetted against the lighting sky. I went down into the Metro and in time arrived at the station. My dear old porter was outside looking for me. We got the bags and guitar, and he installed me in a first class compartment where there were already two French officers. With much courteous fuss, room was made for me and the bags were stowed away on top. Then I asked the porter to buy for me the "Echo de Paris" paying him for all he had done. We waited for some time, and the officer sitting next to me, an elderly gentleman in a great bearskin coat over his uniform, offered me his paper, saying, "He will never bring you yours, Mademoiselle; you have too much confidence in these men." "Oh, I am sure he will bring it," I replied. "Il a été si aimable pour moi tout le temps;" which made both men smile and shrug their shoulders. The whistle blew, the train jerked, when suddenly the door opened and there was the fat old porter all out of breath with my newspaper. "Voilà, Mademoiselle!" he cried, flourishing it at me. "They didn't have the Echo in the station and I had to go way up the street for it." And the Frenchmen cheered! Two nice American officers came into our compartment and we all had breakfast together in the dining-car. Everybody talks to everybody else in France now. They got off the train in an hour or so, and I was left to the mercies of the French army which immediately started a rapid cross-fire of conversation with me as the target. In reality we, or at least I, had an awfully good time and they told me many amusing and interesting things which I can't tell you because I foresee that this letter is going to be horribly long. At two o'clock I got off at a God-forsaken little junction called Les Laumes. My spirits were high, however, because all around were snow-covered beautiful hills, patches of woods, and winding roads outlined by slender poplars with bunches of green mistletoe growing way up in their branches. There are many Americans billeted at Les Laumes. Poor boys! A big M.P. (military policeman) met me at the station. The M.P. is your salvation if you are honest and your terror if you are not. This was a tall, powerful, bushy-eyebrowed young westerner. He picked up my bags as if they were nothing at all and escorted me to the restaurant.