n the blue above our heads!

Paris, to most Americans, means that concentrated little district de luxe
of which the Place Vendome is the centre, and we had always unconsciously
thought of it as in the possession of the Anglo-Saxons. So it seems
today. One saw hundreds of French soldiers, of course, in all sorts of
uniforms, from the new grey blue and visor to the traditional cloth
blouse and kepi; once in a while a smart French officer. The English and
Canadians, the Australians, New Zealanders, and Americans were much in
evidence. Set them down anywhere on the face of the globe, under any
conditions conceivable, and you could not surprise them; such was the
impression. The British officers and even the British Tommies were
blase, wearing the air of the 'semaine Anglaise', and the "five o'clock
tea," as the French delight to call it. That these could have come
direct from the purgatory of the trenches seemed unbelievable. The
Anzacs, with looped-up hats, strolled about, enjoying themselves, halting
before the shops in the Rue de la Paix to gaze at the priceless jewellery
there, or stopping at a sidewalk cafe to enjoy a drink. Our soldiers had
not seen the front; many of them, no doubt, were on leave from the
training-camps, others were on duty in Paris, but all seemed in a hurry
to get somewhere, bound for a definite destination. They might have been
in New York or San Francisco. It was a novel sight, indeed, to observe
them striding across the Place Vendome with out so much as deigning to
cast a glance at the column dedicated to the great emperor who fought
that other world-war a century ago; to see our square-shouldered officers
hustling around corners in Ford and Packard automobiles. And the
atmosphere of our communication headquarters was so essentially one of
"getting things done" as to make one forget the mediaeval narrowness of
the Rue Sainte Anne, and the inconvenient French private-dwelling
arrangements of the house. You were transported back to America. Such,
too, was the air of our Red Cross establishment in the ancient building
facing the Palace de la Concorde, where the unfortunate Louis lost his
head.

History had been thrust into the background. I was never more aware of
this than when, shortly after dawn Wednesday, the massive grey pile of
the Palace of Versailles suddenly rose before me. As the motor shot
through the empty Place d'Armes I made a desperate attempt to summon
again a vivid