Alas!  I find that I cannot break myself of reading the newspapers, and reading them eagerly.  It is all the fault of that nasty affair in Servia.  I have a dim recollection that I was very flippant about it in my last letter to you.  After all, woman proposes and politics upset her proposition.  There seems to be no quick remedy for habit, more’s the pity.  It is a nasty outlook.  We are simply holding our breaths here.

July 30,1914.

This will be only a short letter—­more to keep my promise to you than because I feel in the mood to write.  Events have broken that.  It looks, after all, as if the Servian affair was to become a European affair, and that, what looked as if it might happen during the Balkan War is really coming to pass—­a general European uprising.

It is an odd thing.  It seems it is an easy thing to change one’s environment, but not so easy to change one’s character.  I am just as excited over the ugly business as I should have been had I remained near the boulevards, where I could have got a newspaper half a dozen times a day.  I only get one a day, and this morning I got that one with difficulty.  My “Figaro,” which comes out by mail, has not come at all.

Well, it seems that the so-called “alarmists” were right.  Germany has not been turning her nation into an army just to divert her population, nor spending her last mark on ships just to amuse herself, and keep Prince Henry busy.

I am sitting here this morning, as I suppose all France is doing, simply holding my breath to see what England is going to do.  I imagine there is small doubt about it.  I don’t see how she can do anything but fight.  It is hard to realize that a big war is inevitable, but it looks like it.  It was staved off, in spite of Germany’s perfidy, during the Balkan troubles.  If it has to come now, just imagine what it is going to mean!  It will be the bloodiest affair the world has ever seen—­a war in the air, a war under the sea as well as on it, and carried out with the most effective man-slaughtering machines ever used in battle.

I need not tell you—­you know, we have so often talked about it—­how I feel about war.  Yet many times since I came to France to live, I have felt as if I could bear another one, if only it gave Alsace and Lorraine back to us—­us meaning me and France.  France really deserves her revenge for the humiliation of 1870 and that beastly Treaty of Frankfort.  I don’t deny that 1870 was the making of modern France, or that, since the Treaty of Frankfort, as a nation she has learned a lesson of patience that she sorely needed.  But now that Germany is preparing—­is really prepared to attack her again—­well, the very hair on my head rises up at the idea.  There have been times in the last ten years when I have firmly believed that she could not be conquered again.  But Germany!  Well, I don’t know.  If she is, it will not be for lack of nerve or character.  Still, it is no secret that she is not ready, or that the anti-military party is strong,—­and with that awful Caillaux affair; I swore to myself that nothing should tempt me to speak of it.  It has been so disgraceful.  Still, it is so in the air just now that it has to be recognized as pitifully significant and very menacing to political unity.