ountries the women generally manifested the same steadfast
and silent patience. They said little; but their eyes asked questions.
In the French towns we saw how bravely they strove to carry on their
common affairs of life, which were so sadly shaken and distorted out of
all normality by the earthquake of war.

For currency they had small French coins and strange German coins, and
in some places futile-looking, little green-and-white slips, issued by
the municipality in denominations of one franc and two francs and five
francs, and redeemable in hard specie "three months after the
declaration of peace." For wares to sell they had what remained of their
depleted stocks; and for customers, their friends and neighbors, who
looked forward to commercial ruin, which each day brought nearer to them
all. Outwardly they were placid enough, but it was not the placidity of
content. It bespoke rather a dumb, disciplined acceptance by those who
have had fatalism literally thrust on them as a doctrine to be
practiced.

Looking back on it I can recall just one woman I saw in France who
maintained an unquenchable blitheness of spirit. She was the little
woman who managed the small cafe in Maubeuge where we ate our meals.
Perhaps her frugal French mind rejoiced that business remained so good,
for many officers dined at her table and, by Continental standards, paid
her well and abundantly for what she fed them; but I think a better
reason lay in the fact that she had within her an innate buoyancy which
nothing--not even war--could daunt.

She was one of those women who remain trig and chic though they be
slovens by instinct. Her blouse was never clean, but she wore it with
an air. Her skirt testified that skillets spit grease; but in it she
somehow looked as trim as a trout fly. Even the hole in her stocking
gave her piquancy; and she had wonderful black hair, which probably had
not been combed properly for a month, and big, crackling black eyes.
They told us that one day, a week or two before we came, she had been
particularly cheerful--so cheerful that one of her patrons was moved to
inquire the cause of it.

"Oh," she said, "I am quite content with life to-day. I have word that
my husband is a prisoner. Now he is out of danger and you Germans will
have to feed him--and he is a great eater! If you starve him then I
shall starve you."

At breakfast Captain Mannesmann, who was with us, asked her in his best
French for more