Marje in the Salon at No. 12 Place Denfert-Rochereau
If Rootie were writing this letter, she would tell you all the facts of historic interest about Saint-Germain, as she is well up in her Baedeker, but, as I am not, I will have to let you live in ignorance. I vaguely know that Henri IV was born in the pavillon here, and that François something started to build the château, got disgusted, and built Versailles instead. I can tell you, however, that the woods and park here are wonderful, that the church bell that rings every half-hour is most pleasing, and that there are many good restaurants here—one of which we are sampling this evening.
Daddy writes that my letter about the trip has not arrived. I guess it must have sunk,—isn’t it just my luck? Well, I am going to send you the pictures we took, and I will write another shorter and much less interesting account. I will type it and send a carbon copy a week after the original, and, if you don’t get either, I give it up! I know I have missed some of your letters, but I haven’t been much over two weeks without word, so I certainly must not complain.
Mrs. Willis, a friend of Rootie’s, took over a few little things to you which I was anxious for you to have. She had no room, so I could not send several other things I wanted to. This letter and Eleanor’s, a Mr. Whiting, a friend of mine, is taking for me. I hope that you will get them quicker than usual;—you ought to. I am also sending a couple of posters which I thought you might like for the bungalow in Marion. Tell Josey the little medal I sent her is a regular “croix de guerre,” and the palm leaf on the ribbon is the highest “citation” one can have.
If you get a spare minute, read Helen Davenport Gibbons’s “Red Rugs of Tarsus.” It is Mrs. Gibbons’s first book. In some ways it is more interesting to read, when you do not know her. She is, of course, Dr. Herbert Adams Gibbons’s wife—the one Betty Colt is secretary to. Betty grows more and more attractive. I see quite a lot of her. She has tea every day in the studios after they stop work at half-past four. I blow in pretty often, at about half-past five, and Betty, dear soul, brews me a fresh cup of tea. There are usually interesting people there. Mr. Ayrault drops in often, also Mr. Griffiths, although the latter has broken my great heart by announcing that he has got to work so hard from now until June, he does not expect to take any time off.
Paris has seemed to me a little more sober these last weeks. Ever since America entered the war, the enthusiasm has been mostly American, as far as I can see. The French do not seem too hopeful as to the difference it will make. Mr. Ayrault says that if Germany can hold out through August, or until the next crops,—Heaven help the Allies. He says that the German markets are pathetic now; that they are almost empty; that the poor people are actually hungry, and not from high prices, but because there isn’t any food to be bought. He himself would have been hungry if he hadn’t had outside help. The embassy gets eggs and butter and some meat from Norway, and also from Switzerland. Mr. A. also said that the discipline is so good there, and law and order so much the ordinary run of things, that the people are not likely to revolt. He feels that it is only possible to finish the war soon if the United States can build enough ships quickly to supply England, which, from all accounts, needs food. There are, after all, only a limited number of submarines, and each carries only seven or eight torpedoes, I believe. They do not get a ship every time that they fire, so that, if the United States can build enough ships, losing a hundred or more will not matter in the long run. Mr. Simons, of the American Embassy here,—I mean consulate,—tells me that no grain ship has come to Paris for fifteen days. That is why the new regulation about the cakes and pastries has gone through so suddenly. I personally am glad, for it does not seem quite right for us to be eating so many foolish, unnecessary things if flour is scarce. I suppose the shopkeepers will manage to get around the law somewhat, but it seems to be a step in the right direction.
Harold Willis writes us the most thrilling accounts of the doings of the aviators now. He sent us some of the cards, printed in German by the French Government, which he and his fellow “flyers” drop by the thousands while flying over German territory. The cards say that the United States has joined the war, and recommend that the people surrender, as they will be well fed and taken care of. They are not very dignified, I think, and it is an amusing campaign, is it not? But in some ways I would rather have them drop cards than bombs on the villages, hadn’t you?
It will seem queer to get home to Boston some day and go into street cars and public buildings, and not read on all sides such notices as “Taisez-vous, méfiez-vous, les oreilles ennemies vous écoutent.” Also, “Versez votre or pour le Gouvernement.”
Sunday, while we were wandering through the woods, we came upon a beautiful big tree,—a fairy oak,—all decorated with flags and flowers and prayers for victory. It stood in the middle of a clear space—benches around it. It was touching to see every passer-by take a few flowers from the bunch they were carrying home and lay them devoutly at the foot of the tree, praying as they did so. All the flags were weather-beaten except the latest addition, the American, which looked bright and hopeful in contrast to the others. I have never seen a tree like this. Mark Twain tells of the one at Arc in his “Life of Joan of Arc.”
The terrace at night is in some ways more beautiful than in the daytime. One can see the various searchlights playing in all directions. They are really wonderful,—first one and then another combs the sky, as it were, looking for hostile aircraft, which, by the bye, never get here.