mewhere else. When the
proceedings commenced I slipped in behind their chairs, and, except
for a glare from "Le Tigre," I was left in peace.

Clemenceau rose and said a few words expressing a desire that the
Germans would come forward and sign. Even while he was saying these
few words the whole hall was in movement--nothing but little black
figures rushing about and crushing each other. Then, amidst a mass of
secretaries from the French Foreign Office, the two Germans, Hermann
Mueller and Doctor Bell, came nervously forward, signed, and were led
back to their places. Some guns went off on the terrace--the windows
rattled. Everyone looked rather nervous for a moment, and the show was
over, except for the signatures of the Allies. These were written
without any dignity. People talked and cracked jokes to each other
across tables. Lloyd George found a friend on his way up to sign his
name, and as he had a story to tell him, the whole show was held up
for a bit, but after all, it may have been a good story. All the
"frocks" did all their tricks to perfection. President Wilson showed
his back teeth; Lloyd George waved his Asquithian mane; Clemenceau
whirled his grey-gloved hands about like windmills; Lansing drew his
pictures and Mr. Balfour slept. It was all over. The "frocks" had won (p. 119)
the war. The "frocks" had signed the Peace! The Army was forgotten.
Some dead and forgotten, others maimed and forgotten, others alive and
well--but equally forgotten. Yet the sun shone outside my window and
the fountains played, and the German Army--what was left of it--was a
long, long way from Paris.

[Illustration: LI. _Signing the Peace Treaty._]

After seeing some of the great little black-coated ones leave, amidst
great cheering, George Mair, Colonel Stroud Jackson and I went to the
aerodrome and saw the Press photographs sent off to the waiting crowds
in the British Isles. Then back to Paris. Paris was very calm, not the
least excited. I remember Mair gave some of us dinner at Ciro's that
night. When the band played the Marseillaise, we stood up on our
chairs, held hands and sang and cheered, but no one else moved, so in
the end we got down, feeling damned fools. It was all rather sad!

The next great show was the triumphal march through the Arc de
Triomphe. It was fine! But it must be admitted that the Americans
scored. They had picked men trained for months for this march, and
along they came in close formation, wearing