“Oh, I suppose so!” the woman sighed, “but I just wish I had not left mine in Paris. They might have had it and welcome, if they had allowed me to get out first!”
“I can’t understand why one train for foreigners can’t be run through to Calais,” complained another. “There is no system—that is the trouble!”
“System!” echoed the man. “How can there be system, in regard to strangers, when the country is shaken as by an earthquake? The most powerful military strength in the world, enhanced by all the devices and war-machinery perfected by half a century of study and preparation, is rushing to overwhelm her unsuspecting and unready forces! What is your discomfort, or mine, or that of any individual, when compared to the almost inevitable ruin threatening France? We can only wait and be patient. Our trials are as nothing in comparison to what every native of this country is now suffering.”
This silenced complaints, and the very typical conversation took a more serious tone. Not one of us really understood the full gravity of the catastrophe. It was too sudden and inexplicable. The sentiments prevailing in Paris, at that time, were scarcely wiser than ours; save that former experience—the trials of a war still remembered by many—added the anguish of apprehension to incredulous amazement. We, meanwhile, were more annoyed than frightened, and looked on the whole matter with egoistic intolerance, angry that our plans should be disturbed by so stupid an affair as international discord!
But as days passed, bringing the astounding information that Belgium was likely to be invaded,—bringing also England’s protest, followed by her entrance into the fray,—even we neutrals began to feel the far-reaching shadow of evil.
There appeared no vaguest chance of getting away from distraught Paris; and, hope of this being gradually eclipsed by sympathy for the harassed people, a number of us offered our services to one of the many Red Cross associations rapidly forming in all quarters of the city. Not knowing what better to do, we entered a long, unventilated hall, crowded with fashionably-attired women, mostly—in this particular organization—stranded Americans eager to be of use, rather than pine in idleness for the comforts of unattainable homes. A hard-faced, very self-important Frenchwoman from one of the hospitals addressed us, and for two hours we perspired in the hall’s breathless atmosphere, while our nerves were racked by her piercing voice uttering a volley of technical terms which not one in ten of her auditors understood. We inscribed our names as would-be helpers, and, anticipating an early departure for the front, provided ourselves with literature likely to prepare us more quickly than the Frenchwoman’s rapid flow of unintelligible speech.
Meanwhile, living on charity was beginning to fret those among us whose financial standing was less widely known than that of others with millions behind them. The entering of the hotel’s vast dining-room to partake of meals we could not pay for became embarrassing. One evening, to avoid this, my companion and I decided to procure edibles and have a Bohemian meal in our own rooms. With this in view, we set forth in search of such refreshments as we could afford. But the soldiers and their friends had been before us; and, as commercial traffic was at a standstill, new stock was not procurable to replace what they had exhausted.
If the city had been for months under siege it could scarcely have been more difficult to obtain food. Every pâtisserie had been sold out; even the délicatessen shops were void and the proprietors offensively curt in reply to our amazed inquiries.
“Why?” cried one, glaring personal hatred upon us. “We are in war! Voilà pourquoi! What do you expect? Next week we shall be starving, with les Allemands at our door!”
At another shop we secured two slices of cold ham, a bottle of olives, yielded grudgingly, and, at still another, some cream-cheese. Butter was invisible, and our search for bread in vain, until, after walking miles, we obtained two stale rolls, all that remained of yesterday’s stock, with the usual remark: “C’est la guerre! What would you?”