Madame Balli has black eyes and hair, a white skin, a classic profile, and a smile of singular sweetness and charm.  Until the war came she was far too absorbed in the delights of the world—­the Paris world, which has more votaries than all the capitals of all the world—­the changing fashions and her social popularity, to have heard so much as a murmur of the serious tides of her nature.  Although no one disputed her intelligence—­a social asset in France, odd as that may appear to Americans—­she was generally put down as a mere femme du monde, self-indulgent, pleasure-loving, dependent—­what our more strident feminists call parasitic.  It is doubtful if she belonged to charitable organizations, although, generous by nature, it is safe to say that she gave freely.

[Illustration:  Madame Balli President Reconfort du Soldat]

In that terrible September week of 1914 when the Germans were driving like a hurricane on Paris and its inhabitants were fleeing in droves to the South, Madame Balli’s husband was in England; her sister-in-law, an infirmiere major (nurse major) of the First Division of the Red Cross, had been ordered to the front the day war broke out; a brother-in-law had his hands full; and Madame Balli was practically alone in Paris.  Terrified of the struggling hordes about the railway stations even more than of the advancing Germans, deprived of her motor cars, which had been commandeered by the Government, she did not know which way to turn or even how to get into communication with her one possible protector.

But her brother-in-law suddenly bethought himself of this too lovely creature who would be exposed to the final horrors of recrudescent barbarism if the Germans entered Paris; he determined to put public demands aside for the moment and take her to Dinard, whence she could, if necessary, cross to England.

He called her on the telephone and told her to be ready at a certain hour that afternoon, and with as little luggage as possible, as they must travel by automobile.  “And mark you,” he added, “no dogs!” Madame Balli had seven little Pekinese to which she was devoted (her only child was at school in England).  She protested bitterly at leaving her pets behind, but her brother was inexorable, and when he called for her it was with the understanding that all seven were yelping in the rear, at the mercy of the concierge.

There were seven passengers in the automobile, however, of which the anxious driver, feeling his way through the crowded streets and apprehensive that his car might be impressed at any moment, had not a suspicion.  They were in hat boxes, hastily perforated portmanteaux, up the coat sleeves of Madame Balli and her maid, and they did not begin to yelp until so far on the road to the north that it was not worth while to throw them out.

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