The Patisserie shops are full of enticing little cakes once more; but, sad to say, the quality one finds has depreciated while the prices have gone sky-rocketing. I thought I would economise this noon and, instead of eating a five franc luncheon at the hotel, substitute a cup of cocoa and some little cakes at a tea-shop. When I came to pay my bill it was seven francs fifty! While I was partaking of my frugal repast a French Red Cross nurse came into the shop leading two blind poilus. She bought them each some cakes as if they had been two little boys and they stood there eating them. The poilu nearest me, a tall fine-looking fellow, tasted his, “_Ah!_” he exclaimed, “_c’est une vrai Madeleine!_” He lied. It was no more like a pre-war Madeleine than chalk is like cheese, but if it had been made of India-rubber I suppose he would have said the same thing, and said it with just the same grave and gracious courtesy. Now that the war is over, one feels sorrier than ever for the French officers who haven’t medals. “The Frenchies are issuing the _croix de guerre_ with their rations now,” the boys used to say. And indeed when one sees a French officer without some sort of decoration one feels instinctively that something must be the matter with him. To go or not to go? I am thinking of a compromise. I will postpone my sailing, take the furlough that is due to me. At the end of two weeks I can calmly make up my mind. Cauterets, January 20. “There’s only one poor feature about this place;” declared a boy today, “they won’t let you stay long enough.” This is a representative but not a universal sentiment. Some of the boys don’t like the snow, for Cauterets being high in the Pyrenees, is deep in snow at present. A few complain that they don’t get enough to eat. It is the breakfasts chiefly that fail to satisfy. The French having been used, time out of mind, to a _petit déjeuner_ of rolls and coffee, utterly fail to comprehend the American need for heartier sustenance. When the contracts with the hotels were made it was carefully stipulated that eggs, meat or fish should be served at breakfast in addition to the continental menu, but the quantities were not stated and to a hearty doughboy on a cold morning _one_ egg is a mere tantalization, if not an insult. Every morning you may see them flocking in swarms to the Y. in order to round out their unsatisfactory breakfasts with hot chocolate and bread and jam. Yesterday I overheard some indignant splutterings from a little crowd at one of the canteen tables. “What’s the matter, boys?” “They gave us fish this morning for breakfast!” “They did?” “Yep! One sardine to each man!”