Mr. d'Arcy Morel, the financial correspondent of the _London Daily Telegraph_, came to see me to-day. He lives at Reuil, in the military zone northwest of Fort Mount-Valerian. He had been up all night, getting his belongings to Paris, and had just sent his little daughter to Dieppe on her way to England. Mr. Morel said that the night trains out of Paris at the Gare Saint-Lazare were filled to overflowing. No lights were permitted in the cars, and a dozen soldiers with loaded rifles were placed in a car just behind the locomotive, and a dozen more soldiers at the rear end of the train. These trains stop at every station and take about ten hours to reach Dieppe, instead of four hours as usual. Precautions of guarding the trains are made because several German armored motor-cars had been signalled dashing about near Marly and Pontoise. The gardener of my little place at Vernon, which is on the western line of the Seine, at a point where it is intersected by a strategic line between Chartres in the south and Gisors and Beauvais in the north, seems to be confident that Vernon will not be occupied by the Germans, for he managed to send me today a big basket full of peaches, pears, string beans, and green corn. To-day the first oysters make their appearance! This event, trivial in itself, is significant as showing that the Paris central markets are able to supply Parisians not only with necessities but with luxuries. The mute oyster that comes in with the months having the letter "R" in their names bears eloquent testimony to uninterrupted communications. I looked in for a few moments this afternoon at the National Library in the Rue de Richelieu. No signs of war here! A score of inveterate bookworms were pondering over dusty volumes, inquisitive writers were exploring literature bearing upon the war of 1870, seeking precedents and parallels for coming events; a few ladies were looking up files of old newspapers and fashion plates. The National Library seemed exactly as in the most peaceful days. I lunched to-day at the restaurant Beauge, in the Rue Saint-Marc, a favorite resort of journalists. The manager told me that it would be closed that evening. It seems that he had received a "third warning" not to keep open after half-past nine. As he could never pluck up courage to eject his customers while enjoying succulent repasts, he decided to shut up his place altogether. The suggestion made by an Irishman, Mr. Sullivan of Reuter's Agency, to employ a London "chucker-out" did not at all appeal to his notions of the traditions of Parisian gastronomic hospitality.