In the early days of the war it used to be amusing in the train, as everyone talked, and the talk was good.  Those days are passed.  With the now famous order pasted on every window: 

Taisez-vous!  Mefiez-vous. 
Les oreilles ennemies vous ecoutent

no one says a word.  I came back from Paris with half a dozen officers in the compartment.  Each one, as he entered, brought his hand to salute, and sat down, without a word.  They did not even look at one another.  It is one of the most marked changes in attitude that I have seen since the war.  It is right.  We were all getting too talkative, but it takes away the one charm there was in going to Paris.  I’ve had no adventures since I wrote to you Christmas Day, although we did have, a few days after that, five minutes of excitement.

One day I was walking in the garden.  It was a fairly bright day, and the sun was shining through the winter haze.  I had been counting my tulips, which were coming up bravely, admiring my yellow crocuses, already in flower, and hoping the sap would not begin to rise in the rose bushes, and watching the Marne, once more lying like a sea rather than a river over the fields, and wondering how that awful winter freshet was going to affect the battle-front, when, suddenly, there was a terrible explosion.  It nearly shook me off my feet.

The letter-carrier from Quincy was just mounting the hill on his wheel, and he promptly tumbled off it.  I happened to be standing where I could see over the hedge, but before I could get out the stupid question, “What was that?” there came a second explosion, then a third and a fourth.

They sounded in the direction of Paris.

“Zeppelins,” was my first thought, but that was hardly the hour for them.

I stood rooted to the spot.  I could hear voices at Voisins, as if all the world had rushed into the street.  Then I saw Amelie running down the hill.  She said nothing as she passed.  The postman picked himself up, passed me a letter, shrugged his shoulders, and pushed his wheel up the hill.

I patiently waited until the voices ceased in Voisins.  I could see no smoke anywhere.  Amelie came back at once, but she brought no explanation.  She only brought a funny story.

There is an old woman in Voisins, well on to ninety, called Mere R—–.  The war is too tremendous for her localized mind to grasp.  Out of the confusion she picks and clings to certain isolated facts.  At the first explosion, she rushed, terrorized, into the street, gazing up to the heavens, and shaking her withered old fists above her head, she cried in her shrill, quavering voice:  “Now look at that!  They told us the Kaiser was dying.  It’s a lie.  It’s a lie, you see, for here he comes throwing his cursed bombs down on us.”

You know all this month the papers have had Guillaume dying of that ever-recurring cancer of the throat.  I suppose the old woman thinks Guillaume is carrying all this war on in person.  In a certain sense she is not very far wrong.