Man and Maid

Burton had brought me in a mild gin and seltzer, and it was on the tray,

near, so I drank it, and said to myself, "Here is to the Senses--jolly

good things"--and then I telephoned to Suzette to come and dine.

* * * * *

There is a mole on the left cheek of Suzette, high up near her eye,

there are three black hairs in it--I had never seen them until this

morning--c'est fini--je ne puis plus!

* * * * *

Of course we have all got moles with three black hairs in them--and the

awful moment is when suddenly they are seen--That is the tragedy of

life--disillusion.

I cannot help being horribly introspective, Maurice would agree to

whatever I said, so there is no use in talking to him--I rush to this

journal, it cannot look at me with fond watery eyes of reproach and

disapproval--as Burton would if I let myself go to him.

May 16th--The times have been too anxious to write, it is over two

months since I opened this book. But it cannot be, it cannot be that we

shall be beaten--Oh! God--why am I not a man again to fight! The raids

are continuous--All the fluffies and nearly everyone left Paris in the

ticklish March and April times, but now their fears are lulled a little

and many have returned, and they rush to cinemas and theatres, to kill

time, and jump into the rare taxis to go and see the places where the

raid bombs burst, or Bertha shells, and watch the houses burning and the

crushed bodies of the victims being dragged out. They sicken me, this

rotten crew--But this is not all France--great, dear, brave France--It

is only one section of useless society. To-day the Duchesse de

Courville-Hautevine came to call upon me--mounted all the stairs without

even a wheeze--(the lift gave out again this morning!)--What a

personality!--How I respect her! She has worked magnificently since the

war began, her hospital is a wonder, her only son was killed fighting

gloriously at Verdun.

"You look as melancholy as a sick cat," she told me.

She likes to speak her English--"Of what good Jeune homme! We are not

done yet--I have cut some of my relatives who ran away from

Paris--Imbeciles! Bertha is our diversion now, and the raids at

night--jolly loud things!"--and she chuckled, detaching her scissors

which had got caught in the purple woolen jersey she wore over her Red

Cross uniform. She is quite indifferent to coquetry, this grande dame of

the ancien regime!

"My blessés rejoice in them--Que voulez vous?--War is war--and there

is no use in looking blue--Cheer up, young man!"