nth, and I am not the only
one in France leading a life like that,--and still the cannon are
pounding on in the distance.

XV

August 6, 1915

Well, the sans gene days seem to be passed.

Up to now, as I have told you, the sauf-conduit matter, except on the
last day I was at Meaux, was the thinnest sort of formality. I had to
have one to leave the commune, but the blank forms were lying
around everywhere. I had only to stop at the hotel at Couilly, step into
the cafe, pick up a form and ask the proprietor to fill it out, and that
was all that was necessary. I might have passed it on to anyone, for,
although my name was written on it, no one ever took the trouble to
fill out the description. The ticket-seller at the station merely glanced
at the paper in my hand when I bought a ticket, and the gendarmes at
the ticket window in Paris, when there were any,--often there were
none--did no more. Of course, the possession of a sauf-conduit
presupposes all one's papers en regle, but I never saw anyone
examining to make sure of that.

All this is ended. We are evidently under a new regime.

I had my first intimation yesterday, when I had a domiciliary visit from
the gendarmes at Esbly. It was a very formal, thorough affair, the two
officers treating me, at the beginning of the interview, as if I were a
very guilty person.

I was upstairs when I saw them arrive on their wheels. I put down my
sewing, and went down to be ready to open the door when they
knocked. They didn't knock. I waited a bit, then opened the door.
There was no one on the terrace, but I heard their voices from the
other side of the house. I went in search of them. They were
examining the back of the house as if they had never seen one like it
before. When they saw me, one of them said sharply, without the
slightest salute: "There is no bell?"

I acknowledged the self-evident fact.

"How does one get in, since you keep your door locked?" he added.

"Well," I replied, with a smile, "as a rule, one knocks."

To that his only reply was: "Your name?"

I gave it to him.

He looked on his paper, repeated it--mispronouncing it, of course,
and evidently sure that I did not know how to pronounce it myself.

"Foreigner," he stated.

I could not deny the charge. I merely volunteered "Americaine."

Then the inquiry continued like this. "Live here?"

"Evidently."

"How long have you lived here?"

"Since June, 1914."

That seemed to strike