entrance of the famous wine-cellars of Pommery et Cie, the property of
the ancient family of de Polignac. The space in this underground city
is about equally divided between champagne and civilians, for several
hundred of the townspeople, who sought refuge here in the opening
weeks of the war, still make these gloomy passages their home. As the
_caves_ have a mean temperature of fifty degrees Fahrenheit they are
comfortable enough, and, as they are fifty feet below the surface of
the earth, they are safe. So there the more timid citizens live,
rent-free, and will continue to live, no doubt, until the end of the
war. In normal times, there are shipped from these cellars each day
thirty thousand bottles of champagne, and even now, despite the
proximity of the Germans--their trenches are only a few hundred yards
away--the work of packing and shipping goes on much as usual, though,
of course, on a greatly reduced scale, averaging, so I was told, eight
thousand bottles daily. By far the greater part of this goes to
America, for nowadays Europeans do not buy champagne.

To the red-faced, white-waistcoated, prosperous-looking gentlemen who
scan so carefully the hotel wine-lists, I feel sure that it will come
as a relief to learn that, though there was no 1916 crop of champagne,
the vintages of 1914 and 1915 were exceptionally fine--_grands vins_
they will probably be labelled. (And they ought to be, for the vines
were watered with the bravest blood of France.) I don't suppose it
would particularly interest those same complacent gentlemen, though,
were I to add that the price of one of those gilt-topped bottles would
keep a French child from cold and hunger for a month.

A few hours before I visited the cellars, a workman, loading cases of
champagne in front of the company's offices for export to the United
States, was blown to pieces by a German shell. They showed me the
shattered columns of the office-building, and on the cobbles of the
little square pointed out an ugly stain. So, when I returned to
America, and in a famous restaurant, where I was dining, saw
white-shirted men and white-shouldered women sipping glasses abrim
with the sparkling wine of Rheims, the picture of those blood-stained
cobbles in that French city flashed before me, and I experienced a
momentary sensation of disgust, for it seemed to me that in the amber
depths I caught a stain of crimson. But of course it was only my
imagination. Still, I was glad wh