And now the formalities commenced.  They all had to be medically examined.  Questions of every description were asked them.  They were drifted from bureau to bureau where people sat filling up official blanks.  The Americans see to the children.  They come from living in cellars, from conditions which are insanitary, from cities in the army zones where they were underfed.  The fear is that they may spread contagion all over France.  When infectious cases are found the remnants of families have to be broken up afresh.  The mothers collapse on benches sobbing their hearts out as their children are led away.  For three and a half years everything they have loved has been led away—­how can they believe that these Americans mean only mercy?

From three to four hours are spent in completing all these necessary investigations.  Before the repatries are conducted to their billets, all their clothes have to be disinfected and every one has to be bathed.  The poor people are utterly worn out by the end of it—­they have already done a continuous four days’ journey in cramped trains.  Before being sent to France they have been living for from two to three weeks in Belgium.  The Hun always sends the repatries to Belgium for a few weeks before returning them.  The reason for this is that they for the most part come from the army zones, and a few weeks will make any information they possess out of date.  Another reason is that food is more plentiful in Belgium, thanks to the Allies’ Relief Commission.  These people have been kept alive on sugar-beets for the past few months, so it is as well to feed them at the Allies’ expense for a little while, in order that they may create a better impression when they return to France.  The American doctors pointed out to me the pulpy flesh of the children and the distended stomachs which, to the unpractised eye, seemed a sign of over-nourishment.  “Wind and water,” they said; “that’s all these children are.  They’ve no stamina.  Sugar-beets are the most economic means of just keeping the body and the soul together.”

The lights are going out in the Casino.  It is the hour when, in the old days, life would be becoming most feverish about the gaming tables.  In little forlorn groups the repatries are being conducted to their temporary quarters in the town.  To-morrow morning before it is light, another train-load will arrive, the band will again play the Marseillaise, the American Red Cross workers will again be in attendance, the gentleman in the top-hat and white-tie will again make his fiery oration of welcome, his audience will again pay no attention but will weep softly—­the tediously heart-rending scene will be rehearsed throughout in every detail by an entirely new batch of actors.  Twice a day, summer and winter, the same tragedy is enacted at Evian.  It is a continuous, never-ending performance.

Poor people!  These whom I have seen, if they have no friends to claim them, will re-start their journey to some strange department on which they will be billeted as paupers.  Here again the American Red Cross is doing good work, for it sends one of its representatives ahead to see that proper preparations have been made for their reception.  After they have reached their destination, it looks them up from time to time to make sure that they are being well cared for.