the bourgeoisie, the prose of Anatole France, the humour of Rabelais
and his successors, and other eternal controversies with a pretext of
their old fire. If the theme of war slipped in it was discussed with an
intellectual contempt, and loose-lipped old men found a frightful mirth
in the cut-throat exploits of Moroccans and Senegalese, in the bestial
orgies of drunken Boches, and in the most revolting horrors of
bayonet charges and the corps-à-corps. It was as though they
wanted to reveal the savagery of war to the last indescribable
madness of its lust. "Pah!" said an old cabotin, after one of these
word-pictures. "This war is the last spasm of the world's barbarity.
Human nature will finish with it this time. . . . Let us talk of the women
we have loved. I knew a splendid creature once--she had golden hair,
I remember--"

One of these shabby old gentlemen touched me on the arm.

"Would Monsieur care to have a little music? It is quite close here,
and very beautiful. It helps one to forget the war, and all its misery."

I accepted the invitation. I was more thirsty for music than for vin
ordinaire or cordiale Médoc. Yet I did not expect very much round the
corner of a restaurant frequented by shabby intellectuals... That was
my English stupidity.

A little group of us went through a dark courtyard lit by a high dim
lantern, touching a sculptured figure in a far recess.

"Pas de bruit," whispered a voice through the gloom.

Up four flights of wooden stairs we came to the door of a flat which