oked at me,
as I stared round the hall, with obvious suspicion. Very politely I
asked for my bag and rug, but the lady's air became more frigid when
I explained that I had lost the cloak-room ticket and could not
remember the number of the room I had occupied a few days before.

"Perhaps there is some means by which you could prove that you
stayed here?" said the lady.

"Certainly. I remember the hall porter. His name is Pierre, and he
comes from the Midi."

She shook her head.

"There is no hall porter, Monsieur. He has gone."

"And then the valet de chambre. His name is Francois. He has curly
hair and a short brown moustache."

The lady shook her head in a most decided negative.

"The present valet de chambre is a bald-headed man, and clean-
shaven, monsieur. It must have been another hotel where you
stayed."

I began to think that this must undoubtedly be the case, and yet I
remembered the geography of the hall, and the pattern of the carpet,
and the picture of Mirabeau in the National Assembly.

Then it dawned on both of us.

"Ah! Monsieur was here before August 1. Since then everyone is
mobilized. I am the manager's wife, Monsieur, and my husband is at
the front, and we have hardly any staff here now. You will describe
the shape of your bag..."

2

The French Government was afraid of the soul of Paris. Memories of
the Commune haunted the minds of men who did not understand
that the character of the Parisian has altered somewhat since 1870.
Ministers of France who had read a little history, were terribly afraid
that out of the soul of Paris would come turbulence and mob-passion,
crises de nerfs, rioting, political strife, and panics. Paris must be
handled firmly, sobered down by every possible means, kept from the
knowledge of painful facts, spoon-fed with cheerful communiques
whatever the truth might be, guarded by strong but hidden force,
ready at a moment's notice to smash up a procession, to arrest
agitators, to quell a rebellion, and to maintain the strictest order.

Quietly, but effectively, General Galieni, the military governor of "the
entrenched camp of Paris," as it was called, proceeded to place the
city under martial law in order to strangle any rebellious spirit which
might be lurking in its hiding places. Orders and regulations were issued
in a rapid volley fire which left Paris without any of its old life or
liberty. The terrasses were withdrawn from the cafes. No longer could
t