Man and Maid

It is quite useless for me to comment upon the utterly annoying

circumstance of that mixup of cheque-books--Such things are fate--and

fate I am beginning to believe is nothing but a reflex of our own

actions. If Suzette had not been my little friend, I should not have

given her eight thousand francs--but as she has been--and I did--I must

stand by the consequences.

After all--a man?--Well--what is the use of writing about it. I am so

utterly mad and resentful that I have no words.

It is Sunday morning, and this afternoon I shall hire the one motor

which can be obtained here, at a fabulous price, and go into Paris.

There are some books I want to get out of my bookcase--and somehow I

have lost interest here. But this morning I shall go and sit in the

parish church and hear Mass.--I feel so completely wretched, the music

may comfort me and give me courage to forget all about Miss Sharp. And

in any case there is a soothing atmosphere in a Roman Catholic church,

which is agreeable. I love the French people! They are a continual

tonic, if one takes them rightly. So filled with common sense, simply

using sentiment as an ornament, and a relaxation; and never allowing it

to interfere with the practical necessities of life. Ignorant people say

they are hysterical, and over passionate--They are nothing of the

kind--They believe in material things, and in the "beau geste." Where

they require a religion, they accept a comforting one; and meanwhile

they enjoy whatever comes in their way and get through disagreeables

philosophically. Vive la France!

* * * * *

I am waiting for the motor now--and trying to be resigned.--Mass did me

good--I sat in a corner and kept my crutch by me. The Church itself told

me stories, I tried to see it in Louis XV's time--I dare say it looked

much the same, only dirtier--And life was made up with etiquette and

forms and ceremonies, more exasperating than anything now. But they were

ahead of us in manners, and a sense of beauty.

A little child came and sat beside me for about ten minutes, and looked

at me and my crutch sympathetically.

"Blessé de la guerre," I heard her whisper to her mother--"Comme

Jean."

The organ was not bad--and before I came out I felt calmer.

After all it is absurd of Miss Sharp to be disgusted about Suzette--She

must know, at nearly twenty-four, and living in France, that there are

Suzettes--and I am sure she is not narrow-minded in any way--What can

have made her so censorious? If she took a personal interest in me it

would be different, but entirely indifferent as she is, how can it

matter to her?--As I write this, that hot sense of anger and rebellion

arises in me--I'll have to keep saying to myself that I am in the

trenches again and must not complain.