That warrior, General Carton de Wiart, V.C., came to sit: a man who
loved war. What a happy nature! He told me he never suffered any pain
from all his wounds except once--mental pain--when he temporarily lost
the sight of his other eye, and he thought he might be blind for life.
A joyous man, so quiet, so calm, so utterly unaffected. What a lesson
to the "frocks"!

Another man of great personal charm was Paul Hymans, of Belgium. He
was greatly liked and respected by the British delegates.

[Illustration: XLVIII. _A Polish Messenger._]

CHAPTER XV (p. 111)

PARIS DURING THE PEACE CONFERENCE

Shortly after I arrived in Paris I found one could get "Luxury Tax
Tickets." I had never heard of a Luxury Tax up North, but it was in
force in Paris right enough. So I went to H.Q. Central Area, and
inside the door whom should I meet but my one-time "Colonel" of G.H.Q.
"Hello!" said he. "What are you doing in Paris?" "Painting the Peace
Conference, sir," said I. "Well, what do you want here?" he asked.
"I've come for some Luxury Tax Tickets, sir." "To what are you
attached now?" he asked. "C.P.G.H.Q., sir," said I. "Well," he said,
"if you are attached to G.H.Q. you must go there and get your Luxury
Tax Tickets. You can't get them here." "Right, sir," said I. "Will you
please sign an order for me to proceed to G.H.Q. to obtain Luxury Tax
Tickets and return? and I will start right away, sir." "Well," he
said, "perhaps, after all, I will allow you to have some here, as you
are working in Paris." "Thank you very much indeed, sir," said I,
clicking my heels and saluting. But it was no good, we never could
become friends, as I said before.

One afternoon in the hall at the "Astoria" I saw a strange man--a
paintable person--and I asked the Security Officers to get him to sit
to me. He was a Polish messenger. He came along the next morning, sat
down and smoked his silver pipe. I said: "Can you understand any (p. 112)
English?" "Yes," said he, in a strong Irish accent, "I can a bit."
"But," I said, "you talk it very well. Have you lived in Ireland?"
"No," said he, "but I went to the States for about six months some
fifteen years or more back, and that's where I picked up the wee bit I
have." I began to think he must be de Valera or some other hero in
disguise. Perhaps he was.

Field-Marshal Sir Henry Wilson asked me to dine at the "Majestic" one
night. In the a