he philosophic Parisian sip his petit verre and watch the drama of the
boulevards from the shady side of a marble-topped table. He must sit
indoors like an Englishman, in the darkness of his public-house, as
though ashamed of drinking in the open. Absinthe was banned by a
thunder-stroke from the Invalides, where the Military Governor had
established his headquarters, and Parisians who had acquired the
absinthe habit trembled in every limb at this judgment which would
reduce them to physical and moral wrecks, as creatures of the drug
habit suddenly robbed of their nerve-controlling tabloids. It was an
edict welcomed by all men of self-control who knew that France had
been poisoned by this filthy liquid, but they too became a little pale
when all the cafes of Paris were closed at eight o'clock.

"Sapristi! Qu'est qu'on peut faire les soirs? On ne peut pas dormir
tout le temps! Et la guerre durera peut-etre trois mois!"

To close the cafes at eight o'clock seemed a tragic infliction to the
true Parisian, for whom life only begins after that hour, when the
stupidity of the day's toil is finished and the mind is awakened to the
intellectual interests of the world, in friendly conversation, in
philosophical discussions, in heated arguments, in wit and satire.
How then could they follow the war and understand its progress if the
cafes were closed at eight o'clock? But the edict was given and Paris
obeyed, loyally and with resignation.

Other edicts followed, or arrived simultaneously like a broadside fired
into the life of the city. Public processions "with whatever patriotic
motive" were sternly prohibited. "Purveyors of false news, or of news
likely to depress the public spirit" would be dealt with by courts-martial
and punished with the utmost severity. No musical instruments were
to be played after ten o'clock at night, and orchestras were prohibited
in all restaurants. Oh, Paris, was even your laughter to be abolished,
if you had any heart for laughter while your sons were dying on the
fields of battle?

The newspaper censors had put a strangle grip upon the press, not
only upon news of war but also upon expressions of opinion. Gustave
Herve signed his name three days a week to blank columns of
extraordinary eloquence. Georges Clemenceau had a series of
striking head-lines which had been robbed of all their text. The
intellectuals of Paris might not express an opinion save by permission
of the military censors, most o