The fiacre I have acquired is navigated by Paul, who has been a Paris cocher for thirty-five years, and its one-horse power is furnished by his faithful old horse Grisette. True to type, Paul is stout and jovial. He considers it a great honor to drive for a member of an Embassy and always sits up very straight on his box, for to come and go on missions concerning “les affaires des Etats-Unis” has imbued him with a great sense of dignity and importance. When waiting in front of the Embassy among the limousines he maintains a rigid and dignified position and insists that Grisette, for her part, shall hold up her head and stand on all four feet.
Each noon Paul drives Hazeltine and myself down the nearly deserted Champs-Elysées for lunch at the Café Royal. We must make an absurd spectacle with so much dignity on the box and a total lack of it behind, for Hazeltine and I, relaxing from the strenuous work of the morning, lounge in the seat with our feet far out in front, as we discuss with great vehemence affairs connected with our Embassy work. The pleasure and pride which Paul experiences in his present “position” he shares with Grisette, with whom and of whom he speaks as if she were human. He perorates upon her manifold good qualities, usually ending with the statement that she is “bonne comme du bon pain,” while Grisette modestly pretends that she does not hear herself thus praised.
CHAPTER II
THE GERMANS NEARING PARIS
Saturday, August 29th. Paris feels the oppression of war more and more each day. There have been so many “morts pour la patrie” that everywhere there are families who have been stricken by the loss of a member. This leaven of sorrow gives to the population as a whole a somber tone.
Perfectly frightful stories of German barbarities are circulating. They are almost unbelievable, but seem to have some confirmation.
Many of the wounded Frenchmen when returning from the front bring trophies of battle, such as German swords, bayonets, and buttons. The most prized possession of all is the German spiked helmet. Barring only the scalp of the American Indian, a more significant trophy could not be imagined. It is not only significant but gorgeously handsome. Moreover, it is everywhere on earth accepted as the symbol of the Prussian militarism.
Today Mr. Herrick sent an Attaché with a fast automobile out toward Compiègne, which is thirty-eight miles from the Porte St. Denis. The man was not permitted to approach the town, but from hills on this side he could hear the constant rumble of heavy guns. He returned to Paris giving it as his opinion that a battle was being fought at Compiègne. This, however, is so improbable that he can find no one to credit his report. The idea is really too preposterous! The truth might be that manœuvres of the French army were in progress, or that the forts around Paris were practising. We have been warned that this might occur. The war was not declared four weeks ago; how then would it be possible for the Germans already to be at Compiègne? Before they could reach a point so near Paris they must first reduce the triple line of the French frontier fortifications, which are the product of more than forty years of study and labor and form a greater barrier than any ocean. Even were these reduced, the Germans would have to beat back the French active army numbering one and a half million men. Compiègne is no farther from Paris than Peekskill is from New York.