bourgeoisie--or French women of any class for that
matter--do not take kindly to clubs. For this reason their
organizations limped somewhat in the earlier days and only their
natural financial genius, combined with the national practice of
economy, enabled them to develop that orderly team work so natural to
the Englishwoman. Mlle. E. told me with a wry face that she detested
the new clubs formed for knitting and sewing and rolling bandages. "It
is only old maids like myself," she added, "who go regularly. After
marriage French women hate to leave their homes. Of course they go
daily to the ouvroirs, where they have their imperative duties, but
they don't like it. I shall belong to no club when the war is over and
my American girls have returned to Paris."

VI

MADAME PIERRE GOUJON

I

Madame Pierre Goujon is another young Frenchwoman who led not only a
life of ease and careless happiness up to the Great War, but also, and
from childhood, an uncommonly interesting one, owing to the kind fate
that made her the daughter of the famous Joseph Reinach.

M. Reinach, it is hardly worth while to state even for the benefit of
American readers, is one of the foremost "Intellectuals" of France.
Born to great wealth, he determined in his early youth to live a life
of active usefulness, and began his career as private secretary to
Gambetta. His life of that remarkable Gascon is the standard work. He
was conspicuously instrumental in securing justice for Dreyfus,
championing him in a fashion that would have wrecked the public career
of a man less endowed with courage and personality: twin gifts that
have carried him through the stormy seas of public life in France.

His history of the Dreyfus case in seven volumes is accepted as an
authoritative however partisan report of one of the momentous crises
in the French Republic. He also has written on alcoholism and
election reforms, and he has been for many years a Member of the
Chamber of Deputies, standing for democracy and humanitarianism.

On a memorable night in Paris, in June, 1916, it was my good fortune
to sit next to Monsieur Reinach at a dinner given by Mr. Whitney
Warren to the American newspaper men in Paris, an equal number of
French journalists, and several "Intellectuals" more or less connected
with the press. The scene was the private banquet room of the Hotel de
Crillon, a fine old palace on the Place de la Concorde; and in that
ornate red and gold room w