Toward evening we arrived at the little French village of Gondecourt. The streets were decorated with flowers, and groups of little French children ran to and fro shouting _Vive les Américaines_! We were met by French officers and taken to the inn, a charming little brownstone building, where French officers, soldiers and civilians mingled without distinction. There the mayor of the town and the town major, who is appointed in all zones of the army as the representative of the military, came to call on us, and we started to get down to business. A most difficult thing for our men to realize was the various formalities through which one must go in working with the French. Many times real trouble was caused because the Americans did not understand what a part in French life _politesse_ plays. No conversation on military matters is carried on by the French in the way we would. You do not go straight to the point. Each participant first expresses himself on the virtues and great deeds of the other, and after this the sordid matter of business in hand is taken up. We were poorly equipped for this. Only McNair and I spoke French at all, and ours was weird and awful to a degree. We had both been taught by Americans after the best approved United States method. The French town major with whom we dwelt was an old fellow, a veteran of the war of 1870. He had an enormous white mustache. He "snorted like a buffalo," and the one word that I always understood was _parfaitement_, which he constantly used. [Illustration: BRIGADIER GENERAL FRANK A. PARKER, LIEUTENANT COLONEL THEODORE ROOSEVELT, AND MRS. ROOSEVELT AT ROMAGNE] Right by this area was the birthplace of Jeanne d'Arc. The humble little village, Domremy, is just like any of those in the surrounding country. The house where she is supposed to have lived is rather smaller than its neighbors. In many ways Jeanne d'Arc and this little village symbolize France to me. France is France not on account of those who scintillate in Paris, but on account of the humbler people, those whom the tourist never sees, or if he does, forgets. France has no genius for politics. Her Chamber of Deputies is composed of men who amount to little and who do not share the national ideals and visions, but in the body of the people you find that flaming and pure patriotism which counts no costs when the fight is for France. The national impulse will exist as long as there is a peasant left alive. The training area was composed of a number of towns with from 150 to 500 civilian population. We ran from village to village in automobiles, surprised and appalled by the number of men that the French military were able to put in each.