_August._--The torture has begun. Yesterday evening D. was waiting for me when I arrived--knowing how upset I should be after parting with my son, he was anxious and sympathetic. We were both crying when we kissed each other. Already we are without papers and without news. We rush after people who pass reading odd sheets, bought in neighboring towns and full of vague rumors which are generally contradicted next day. My chauffeur has gone, and my staff of servants is reduced to my Hindu and a charwoman. We often have a good cry together when we think of the beautiful country we lived in of yore, and are terrified at the thought of what may be in store for us here. V--THE STREAM TOWARD DEATH I am still without any news of Paul, and enduring the misery of not knowing where he is. I particularly asked a soldier who was starting for Dijon to find out if F., the airman, was there. But will he do it? The road to Fontainebleau passes this house, and all day long troops and horses go by, and men who have been called up and are joining their regiments, and cars bringing back others from their holidays to go to the front. And already there is fighting on the frontier. Germany, like an octopus, has put out her tentacles to wrest from us our sons, our husbands, and our country. How monstrous a thing is war! I could not, if I would, describe my thoughts and feelings, and who would dare to do so in the midst of such desolation! * * * * * The continuous stream flows out towards death--soldiers pass singing and shouting, "To Berlin!" Others go by in silence, fierce-looking, and determined. The women make superhuman efforts not to cry as they accompany them to the stations. Everything is well organized. Yesterday thirty trains went through at intervals of five minutes, all full of young men. Fontainebleau is in a ferment, so is Paris; they say that the principal hospital will be at Fontainebleau, and a whole nursing staff is being organized to attend to the first wounded who come in. A great many officers' wives have volunteered as nurses. They have put up hospital tents all round the station at Moret. This morning I at last received news of my darling son. Alas! he has apparently been sent to Belfort. It seems the irony of fate that he who is so madly keen on aeroplanes should be sent to look after balloons, in which he takes no interest. However, Paul is brave and energetic, he is also fortunately devoid of the sort of recklessness which leads people to expose themselves uselessly. Drumont said to me the other day: "The sound common sense he inherits from you will be worth a fortune to him." My dear boy's letter has stirred me to the very depths of my being. Day or night I will never part with the lock of his hair which we cut off just as he was going.