The first quiet breath I have drawn, and very comfortable it is to sink into the broad seats, out of the glare of the setting sun, and feel there is nothing to inspect save the flying aspect of nature for the next three hours. The handsome officer this morning proved to be Mr. B., and he didn’t get that cab, which, however, we promised to send back to him once we were deposited at the general’s headquarters. General Goïgoux is most agreeable. When he asked us where we were lodged, we threw a stone at the Hôtel de la Haute Mère Dieu and told him of our Good Samaritan. He gave a grin, if generals are supposed to grin, when we said that we had not disturbed her to any great extent, as she had, in addition, a country place where she really lived. We then told him of our meeting with Miss N. and Miss M., who had asked us to investigate the canteen prospects on our way back to Paris. The installing of one has long been the idea of General Goïgoux, who loves his _poilus_, and he immediately rang the bell on his table—among his books was a German Baedeker of eastern France—and in a moment a captain with a sad face and a black band on his arm appeared, and we departed in a huge military auto to the station to investigate the great railway shed that the general has requisitioned for canteen purposes. Going through the streets, we were held up for a moment by a detachment of prisoners in various uniforms and from various regiments, but all with P.G. (_prisonnier de guerre_) marked in large letters on their backs. A tall, upstanding set with ringing tread, not at all unhappy-looking, despite a something set about their expression, seemingly in very good physical condition. Statues of the top-hatted, frock-coated political men of nineteenth-century France have banalized the public places of every town in the _doux pays_. They simply can’t compete with the saints and kings and warriors of the artistic periods—it’s too bad they have tried. At 12.30 we got back to our pleasant quarters, to find our hostess there, in a very smart dark-blue serge dress from Jeanne Hallé. In addition to the château, the shop down-stairs, called “Aux Alliés,” where all sorts of edible delicacies are sold, belongs to her together with a tall and beautiful red-haired Frenchwoman. This is her up-stairs resting-place during the day. We sank on bed and sofa, exhausted by the heat, the visit to the station to inspect the canteen facilities, which seemed most promising, visits to two churches, and luncheon in the crowded Restaurant du Renard. In the church of St.-Alpin white-bloused experts were busy removing the beautiful sixteenth-century stained-glass windows. “If ’twere done, ’twere well ’twere done quickly.” That continued booming of guns made one realize at once their fragility and their beauty.