ttle gardens
were masses of colours--French colours like that in the beds of the
Tuileries, brick-red geraniums and dahlias, yellow marigolds and purple
asters.

We lunched at one of the little inns that for generations have been
tucked away in the narrow streets of provincial towns; this time a
Cheval Blanc, with an unimposing front and a blaze of sunshine in its
heart. After a dejeuner fit for the most exacting of bon viveurs we sat
in that courtyard and smoked, while an ancient waiter served us with
coffee that dripped through silver percolators into our glasses. The
tourists have fled. "If happily you should come again, monsieur," said
madame, as she led me with pardonable pride through her immaculate
bedrooms and salons with wavy floors. And I dwelt upon a future holiday
there, on the joys of sharing with a friend that historic place. The
next afternoon I lingered in another town, built on a little hill ringed
about with ancient walls, from whose battlements tide-veined marshes
stretched away to a gleaming sea. A figure flitting through the cobbled
streets, a woman in black who sat sewing, sewing in a window, only
served to heighten the impression of emptiness, to give birth to the odd
fancy that some alchemic quality in the honeyed sunlight now steeping it
must have preserved the place through the ages. But in the white close
surrounding the church were signs that life still persisted. A peasant
was drawing water at the pump, and the handle made a noise; a priest
chatted with three French ladies who had come over from a neighbouring
seaside resort. And then a woman in deep mourning emerged from a tiny
shop and took her bicycle from against the wall and spoke to me.

"Vous etes Americain, monsieur?"

I acknowledged it.

"Vous venez nous sauver"--the same question I had heard on the lips of
the workman in the night. "I hope so, madame," I replied, and would
have added, "We come also to save ourselves." She looked at me with
sad, questioning eyes, and I knew that for her--and alas for many like
her--we were too late. When she had mounted her wheel and ridden away I
bought a 'Matin' and sat down on a doorstep to read about Kerensky and
the Russian Revolution. The thing seemed incredible here--war seemed
incredible, and yet its tentacles had reached out to this peaceful Old
World spot and taken a heavy toll. Once more I sought the ramparts, only
to be reminded by those crumbling, machicolated ruins that I was in a