palaces of the Place
Stanislas; and in the story I'd like to write, I should put a
description of their drawing room, and the scene after dinner that
night.

Imagine a background of decorative walls, adorned with magnificent
portraits (one of the best is Stanislas, and better still is Louis XVI,
a proud baby in the arms of a handsome mother); imagine beautiful Louis
XV chairs, tables, and sofas scattered about, with the light of
prism-hung chandeliers glinting on old brocades and tapestries: flowers
everywhere, in Chinese bowls and tall vases; against this background a
group of lovely girls multiplied by many mirrors into a large company;
be-medalled officers in pale blue uniforms, handing coffee to the
ladies, or taking from silver dishes carried by children the delicious
macaroons which are to Nancy what Madeleines are to Commercy. Imagine
long windows opening into a garden: rosy lamplight streaming out, silver
moonlight streaming in; music; the wonderful voice of a man (Julian
O'Farrell) singing the "Marseillaise," the "Star-Spangled Banner," and
"Tipperary." Then into the midst of this breaking the tiresome whine of
the siren.

"What? A fourth time to-day?" cries somebody. "These creatures will wear
out their welcome if they're not careful!"

A laugh follows, to drown the bark of shrapnel, and a general shrugging
of the shoulders. But suddenly comes a cry that _la petite_--the baby
daughter of the house, sitting up in our honour--has run into the
garden.

The elder girls are not afraid for themselves, the great bombardments
have given them a quiet contempt of mere Taubes. But for the little
sister!--that is different. Instantly it seems that all the bombs
Germany has ever made may be falling like iron rain on that curly head
out there among the autumn lilies. Everybody rushes to the rescue: and
there is the child, sweet as a cherub and cool as a cucumber, in the
din. She stands on the lawn, chin in air, baby thumb on baby nose for
the Taube caught in a silver web of searchlights.

"_Sale oiseau!_" her defiant cry shrills up. "Just like you, to come on
my grown-up evening! But you shan't spoil it. No, sister, I don't want
to go in. I came out to say good-night to the chickens and rabbits, and
tell them not to be afraid."

Behind the lilies and late roses and laurels is quite a menagerie of
domestic animals, housed among growing potatoes, beans, and tomatoes.
_C'est la guerre!_ But rabbits and chickens are ro