To “Maison de la Presse, Service de l’Information Diplomatique,” I write: “Gentlemen, your favour of the 26th inst. with your regrets just received. And I hasten to write you that I cannot, for the sake of France, accept your decision as final, without presenting to your attention a situation with which you may not be familiar. You see, gentlemen, in the country from which I come, we have a feminism that is neither an ideal nor a theory, but a working reality. In America, there were when I left, four million women citizens, and the State legislatures every little while making more. These are, gentlemen, four million citizens with a vote, whose wishes must be consulted by Congress at Washington in determining the war policy of the United States. Their sympathies help to determine the amount of the war relief contributions that may come across the Atlantic. These are four million women who count, gentlemen, please understand, exactly the same as four million men.
“Other American publications may offer Maison de la Presse other facilities for reaching the American public. But none of them can duplicate the facilities presented by the Pictorial Review, the leading magazine to champion the feminist cause. It is the magazine that is read by the woman who votes. Is not France interested in what she shall read there?
“Believe me, gentlemen, the opportunity for propaganda that I offer you is unparalleled. I beg you therefore to reconsider. I earnestly desire to go to the front this week. Can you, I ask, permit me to leave this land without granting the privilege? For the sake of France, gentlemen! Awaiting your reply, I remain,” etc.
That letter was posted at 11 o’clock at night. Before noon the next day Maison de la Presse was on the telephone and speaking English. In France they do not hurry. It is not customary to use the telephone. And it is at this time against the law to speak English on it. But listen: “Will Mme. Daggett find herself able to accept the invitation of the French government to go to the front on Thursday?” inquires the voice on the wire.
CHAPTER II
Close Up Behind the Lines
“It is going to be perhaps a dangerous undertaking,” says the French army officer the next day in the reception room at Maison de la Presse. He is speaking solemnly and impressively. “Do you still wish to go?” he asks, addressing me in particular. I look back steadily into his eyes. “Oui, Monsieur.” Then his glance sweeps inquiringly the semicircle of faces. There are six journalists and a munitions manufacturer from Bridgeport, Connecticut. And they all nod assent. The room is singularly silent for an instant, the officer just standing quietly, his left hand resting on his sword-hilt. Then he turns and passes to each of us the official Permis de Correspondent de la Presse aux Armees, for our journey to Rheims the next day. And we all sign on the dotted line.
Before I retire that night I rip the pink rose from off my hat and lay out the long dark coat which is to envelop me from my neck to my heels. It is the camouflage which, in accordance with the army orders, blends one with the landscape as a means of concealment from the German gunners’ range. Rheims is under bombardment. It was fired on yesterday. It may be to-morrow. There must not be, the army officer has assured us, even the flower on the lady’s hat for a target.
My electric light winks once. Two minutes later it winks twice, and is gone, according to the martial law which puts out all lights in Paris from 11:30 at night until 8 o’clock in the morning. I grope my way to bed in the darkness and at 6 o’clock the next morning, I dress by candle light. I count carefully the “pieces de identité” in the chamois safety bag that hangs over my left hip and place in my hand bag my passport and my French permis, both of which must be presented at the railway station before I can purchase a ticket. I look to make sure that the inside pocket of my purse still contains my business card with its pencilled request: “In case of death or disaster kindly notify the Pictorial Review, New York City.” And as I pass the porter’s desk at the hotel entrance I leave with the sleepy concierge one other last message: “If Mme. Daggett has not returned by midnight, will the hotel management kindly communicate with her friend Mlle. Marie Perrin, 12 Rue Ordener?” All these are precautions that you take lest you be lost in the great European war.
The Gare l’Est is crowded always with throngs of soldiers arriving and departing for the front. It is necessary that our party assemble as early as seven o’clock to get in line at the ticket window for the eight o’clock train, for every traveller’s credentials must be separately and carefully read and inspected. At Epernay, where we alight at 10:30, the station platform is densely packed with French soldiers in the sky blue uniforms that have been so carefully matched with the horizon color of France. A debonnair French captain has been appointed by the French government to receive us. He is in full uniform, splendid scarlet trousers and gold braided coat, with his left breast ornamented with the Croix de Guerre and the Médaille de Honneur. After the formal salutations are over, however, his orderly envelops all of the captain’s splendour too in the long sky blue coat for camouflage against the Germans. And we start for Rheims in the convoy of three luxuriously appointed “camoens,” the limousines placed at our disposal by the government. They, too, are painted blue grey to blend with the landscape, and each flies a little French flag.