Will the French ever recover wholly their habit of free, careless, expressive speech? Of all the peoples under the trials of this war they have become by general report the most sternly, grimly silent. Compared with them the English, deemed by nature taciturn, have become almost hysterically voluble. They complain, apologize, accuse, recriminate. Each new manifestation of Teutonic strategy has evoked from the English a flood of outraged comment. But from the beginning the French have wasted no time on such _bêtise_ as they would call it: they have put all their energies into their business, which as every French creature knows is to fight this war through to a triumphant end--and not talk. An extraordinary reversal of national temperaments that! From the mobilization hour it was the same thing: every Frenchman knew what it meant, the hour of supreme trial for his country, and he went about his part in it with set face, without the beating of drums, and he has kept that mood since. Henri Lavedan, in a little sketch of the reunion between a _poilu_, on leave after nine months' absence in the trenches, and his wife, has caught this significant note. The good woman has gently reproached her husband for not being more talkative, not telling her any of his experiences. The soldier says,--"One doesn't talk about it, little one, one does it. And he who talks war doesn't fight.... Later, I'll tell you, after, when _it_ is signed!" * * * * * There were plenty of cabs and taxis on the streets by the time I reached Paris, rather dangerously driven by strangers ignorant of the ramifications of the great city and of the complexities of motor engines. Most of the tram-lines were running, and the metro gave full service until eleven at night, employing many young women as conductors--and they made neat, capable workers. Many of the shops, especially along the boulevards, were open for a listless business, although the shutters were often up, with the little sign on them announcing that the place was closed because the _patron_ was mobilized. And there was a steady stream of people on the sidewalks of all main thoroughfares,--at least while daylight lasted, for the streets emptied rapidly after dark when a dim lamp at the intersection of streets gave all the light there was--quite brilliant to me after the total obscurity of Venice at night! But my French and American friends, who had lived in Paris all through the crisis before the battle of the Marne,--with the exodus of a million or so inhabitants streaming out along the southern routes, the dark, empty, winter streets,--found Paris almost normal. The restaurants were going, the hotels were almost all open, except the large ones on the Champs Élysées that had been transformed into hospitals. At noon one would find something like the old frivol in the Ritz Restaurant,--large parties of much-dressed and much-eating women. For the parasites were