When we came back after supper the sofa was spread with large, crisp, spotless linen sheets, the bed the same, the refugee gone, and here we are in this clean, low-ceilinged room with eighteenth-century wood-panelings and charming door-handles of the same period. There is a crayon of the present tenant reflecting her sweet and candid expression over the mantelpiece, on which are two Dresden-china figures and a small white-marble “Young Bacchus”; furthermore an etching by Hellu of the Duchess of Marlborough, which made one feel quite poised. In fact, there is nothing _demi_ about it. The Place de la République is full of soldiers coming and going, and there are several ambulances of the Scottish Ambulance Corps drawn up by a big fountain representing three women (typifying the Marne, the Moselle, and the Agne). Over the soft, warm night is borne the low boom of cannon. The guard has just called out: “_Faites attention! Lumière au troisième étage_”—so I must stop. _Tuesday, 9.30 a.m._ Sitting in the Place de la République on chairs borrowed from a little lace-shop, and waiting for the cab to come to take us to General Goïgoux, to whom Madame Fould had given us a letter of introduction. Just opposite is the inhospitable Hôtel de la Haute Mère Dieu, and I have been telling Mrs. C. P., who has gone to buy some fruit, of the story of Voltaire and Madame du Châtelet passing through Châlons _en route_ from Versailles to Lunéville. At Châlons Madame du Châtelet thought she’d like to have a bouillon at the Hôtel de la Cloche d’Or, where they stopped to change horses. (It still exists and is the only one we didn’t try last night.) It was brought them to their carriage by the _aubergiste_ herself, who had learned from the indiscreet postilion the identity of the illustrious travelers. When Longchamp, the valet of Voltaire, asks to pay, she firmly demands a louis d’or for the bouillon. “La divine Emilie” protests, the woman insists that at her hotel the “price of an egg, a bouillon, or a dinner is a louis”; then Voltaire gets out and tries by amiable processes to explain that in no country in the world did a bouillon ever cost a louis; more cries and reproaches; a crowd gathers; Voltaire, strong in his right, doesn’t want to give way. Madame du Châtelet points out the gathering crowd, now quite noisy. Finally they pay, Voltaire commending to all the devils the hospitable town of Châlons-sur-Marne; they depart to the accompaniment of the gibes of the amiable inhabitants. It may be _autre temps_, but not _autres mœurs_; it’s just like the woman at the desk at the Hôtel de la Haute Mère Dieu, who wouldn’t take us in, in any sense, last night. The most awful-looking cab has just drawn up in front of “our” house, and a smart American ambulance officer is trying to get in. IN THE TRAIN EN ROUTE FOR PARIS.