I cannot help being horribly introspective, Maurice would agree to whatever I said, so there is no use in talking to him--I rush to this journal, it cannot look at me with fond watery eyes of reproach and disapproval--as Burton would if I let myself go to him. _May 16th_--The times have been too anxious to write, it is over two months since I opened this book. But it cannot be, it cannot be that we shall be beaten--Oh! God--why am I not a man again to fight! The raids are continuous--All the fluffies and nearly everyone left Paris in the ticklish March and April times, but now their fears are lulled a little and many have returned, and they rush to cinemas and theatres, to kill time, and jump into the rare taxis to go and see the places where the raid bombs burst, or Bertha shells, and watch the houses burning and the crushed bodies of the victims being dragged out. They sicken me, this rotten crew--But this is not all France--great, dear, brave France--It is only one section of useless society. To-day the Duchesse de Courville-Hautevine came to call upon me--mounted all the stairs without even a wheeze--(the lift gave out again this morning!)--What a personality!--How I respect her! She has worked magnificently since the war began, her hospital is a wonder, her only son was killed fighting gloriously at Verdun. "You look as melancholy as a sick cat," she told me. She likes to speak her English--"Of what good _Jeune homme_! We are not done yet--I have cut some of my relatives who ran away from Paris--Imbeciles! Bertha is our diversion now, and the raids at night--jolly loud things!"--and she chuckled, detaching her scissors which had got caught in the purple woolen jersey she wore over her Red Cross uniform. She is quite indifferent to coquetry, this grande dame of the _ancien regime_! "My _blessés_ rejoice in them--_Que voulez vous?_--War is war--and there is no use in looking blue--Cheer up, young man!" Then we talked of other things. She is witty and downright, and her every thought and action is kindly. I love la Duchesse--My mother was her dearest friend. When she had stayed twenty minutes--she came over close to my chair. "I knew you would be bitter at not being in the fight, my son," she said, patting me with her once beautiful hand, now red and hardened with work, "So I snatched the moments to come to see you. On your one leg you'll defend if the moment should come,--but it won't! And you--you wounded ones, spared--can keep the courage up. _Tiens!_ you can at least pray, you have the time--I have not--_Mais le Bon Dieu_ understands--." And with that she left me, stopping to arrange her tightly curled fringe (she sticks to all old styles) at the lac mirror by the door. I felt better after she had gone--yes, it is that--God--why can't I fight! III