blood and agony men's wayward fancies, the seductions of the flesh,
the truancies of the heart were tamed and leashed.

Yet a Christian soul may pity those poor butterflies of life who had
been broken on the wheels of war. I pitied them, unashamed of this
emotion, when I saw some of them flitting through the streets of Paris
on that September eve when the city was very quiet, expecting
capture, and afterwards through the long, weary weeks of war. They
had a scared look, like pretty beasts caught in a trap. They had
hungry eyes, filled with an enormous wistfulness. Their faces were
blanched, because rouge was dear when food had to be bought
without an income, and their lips had lost their carmine flush. Outside
the Taverne Royale one day two of them spoke to me--I sat scribbling
an article for the censor to cut out. They had no cajoleries, none of
the little tricks of their trade. They spoke quite quietly and gravely.

"Are you an Englishman?"

"Yes."

"But not a soldier?"

"No. You see my clothes!"

"Have you come to Paris for pleasure? That is strange, for now there
is nothing doing in that way."

"Non, c'est vrai. Il n'y a rien à faire dans ce genre."

I asked them how they lived in war time.