Yet a Christian soul may pity those poor butterflies of life who had been broken on the wheels of war. I pitied them, unashamed of this emotion, when I saw some of them flitting through the streets of Paris on that September eve when the city was very quiet, expecting capture, and afterwards through the long, weary weeks of war. They had a scared look, like pretty beasts caught in a trap. They had hungry eyes, filled with an enormous wistfulness. Their faces were blanched, because rouge was dear when food had to be bought without an income, and their lips had lost their carmine flush. Outside the Taverne Royale one day two of them spoke to me—I sat scribbling an article for the censor to cut out. They had no cajoleries, none of the little tricks of their trade. They spoke quite quietly and gravely.
"Are you an Englishman?"
"Yes."
"But not a soldier?"
"No. You see my clothes!"
"Have you come to Paris for pleasure? That is strange, for now there is nothing doing in that way."
"Non, c'est vrai. Il n'y a rien à faire dans ce genre."
I asked them how they lived in war time.
One of the girls—she had a pretty delicate face and a serious way of speech—smiled, with a sigh that seemed to come from her little high- heeled boots.
"It is difficult to live. I was a singing girl at Montmartre. My lover is at the war. There is no one left. It is the same with all of us. In a little while we shall starve to death. Mais, pourquoi pas? A singing girl's death does not matter to France, and will not spoil the joy of her victory!"