P. S. It was revealed to me to-night that my detention and trial in Bordeaux was a frame-up conceived by loving friends aboard ship and carried out by that English-speaking cross-examiner, who, believe me, is a convincing actor.
Thanks, gents. It was good for about two thousand words.
III
I TRY TO GET TO THE AMERICAN CAMP—BUT MEET DISASTER
Wednesday, August 22. Paris.
The gentlemen authorized to issue visitors’ passes to the American camp and the various fronts don’t seem to realize that a person may be in a hurry. They fail to appreciate the facts that hanging round Paris is financial ruin and that the world series, which one positively must attend, is drawing nearer every hour.
Permission to go to the British front was requested over a week ago. No reply. Daily calls at our own press bureau produce nothing but promises of a trip somewhere, some time. Monsieur Boss of the French Maison de la Presse says I may be taken through the devastated territory—in a week or so.
Meanwhile the Battle of Paris goes on, with Death always staring one in the face—Death from taxis, from starvation, from water thirst, from hand-to-hand encounters with the language.
Death from a taxi is the most likely form and the most distressing, for under the Parisian law the person run down and killed is the one at fault and the corpus delicti is liable to life imprisonment or worse. A pedestrian has no more rights here than the Kaiser, and it’s almost impossible to cross the street unless you’ve gone through a course of intensive training in Detroit.
There would be little danger if all the crossings were on the upgrade, for the French cars—those which aren’t in the military service—have a desperate time climbing. They have to shift speeds even to run up on the sidewalk, which is one of their favorite sports. But the Loop District of Paris is topographically on the level, and taxis can tear along like an eastbound Russian.
On occasions when you are run into and knocked down a gendarme appears on the scene with pencil and note-book. He takes the name and address of the driver and escorts you to jail. If you die there, the driver is sent a medal for marksmanship.