Even the faces had a different look, the voices a different ring. It was
another country from that of the days of peace. Superb and dauntless,
tried by the most searing of fires and not found wanting, France was
standing girt with her shining armor, barring the invader from her
cities, her villages, her homes.
Deep in my heart--too deep to be talked of often--there had lain always
a tenderness for this heroic France. "A man's other country," some wise
person had christened it; and so it was for me, since by a chance I had
been born here, and since here my father and then my mother had died. I
was glad I had run the gauntlet and had reached Paris to do my part in
a mighty work. An ambulance drove heavily past me, and with a thrill I
wondered how soon I should bend over such a steering wheel, within sound
of the great guns.
Leaving the cafe at last, I beckoned a taxi and settled myself on its
cushions for a drive. Each new vista that greeted me was enchanting. The
pavements, the river, the buildings, the stately bridges,--all held the
same soft, silvery tint of pale French gray.
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