Soldiers walked in the garden,—­permissionnaires (men on furlough) out for an airing with their rejoicing families, smart young English subalterns, and rosy-fleshed, golden-haired Flemings of the type that Rubens drew.  But neither their presence nor the sight of an occasional mutile (soldier who has lost a limb), pathetically clumsy on his new crutches, quite sent home the presence of the war.  The normal life of the city was powerful enough to engulf the disturbance, the theaters were open, there were the same crowds on the boulevards, and the same gossipy spectators in the sidewalk cafes.  After a year of war the Parisians were accustomed to soldiers, cripples, and people in mourning.  The strongest effect of the war was more subtle of definition, it was a change in the temper of the city.  Since the outbreak of the war, the sham Paris that was “Gay Paree” had disappeared, and the real Paris, the Paris of tragic memories and great men, had taken its place.  An old Parisian explained the change to me in saying, “Paris has become more French.”  Deprived of the foreigner, the city adapted itself to a taste more Gallic; faced with the realities of war, it exchanged its artificiality for that sober reasonableness which is the normal attitude of the nation.

At noon I left the garden and strolled down the Champs Elysees to the Porte Maillot.  The great salesrooms of the German motor-car dealers had been given by the Government to a number of military charities who had covered the trade signs with swathes and rosettes of their national colors.  Under the banner of the Belgians, in the quondam hop of the Mercedes, was an exhibition of leather knickknacks, baskets, and dolls made by the blind and mutilated soldiers.  The articles—­children’s toys for the most part, dwarfs that rolled over and over on a set of parallel bars, Alsatian lasses with flaxen hair, and gay tops—­were exposed on a row of tables a few feet back from the window.  By the Porte Maillot, some of the iron saw-horses with sharpened points, which had formed part of the barricade built there in the days of the Great Retreat, lay, a villainous, rusty heap, in a grassy ditch of the city wall; a few stumps of the trees that had been then cut down were still visible, and from a railroad tie embedded in the sidewalk hung six links of a massive chain.  Through this forgotten flotsam on the great shore of the war, the quiet crowds went in and out of the Maillot entrance to the Bois de Boulogne.  There was a sense of order and security in the air.  I took a seat on the terrace of a little restaurant.  The garcon was a small man in the fifties, inclined to corpulence, with a large head, large, blue-gray eyes, purplish lips, and blue-black hair cut pompadour.  As we watched the orderly, Sunday crowds going to the great park, we fell into conversation about the calmness of Paris.  “Yes, it is calm,” he said; “we are all waiting (nous attendons).  We know that the victory will be ours at the finish.  But all we can do is to wait.  I have two sons at the front.”  He had struck the keynote.  Paris is calmly waiting—­waiting for the end of the war, for victory, for the return of her children.