History had been thrust into the background.  I was never more aware of this than when, shortly after dawn Wednesday, the massive grey pile of the Palace of Versailles suddenly rose before me.  As the motor shot through the empty Place d’Armes I made a desperate attempt to summon again a vivid impression, when I had first stood there many years ago, of an angry Paris mob beating against that grill, of the Swiss guards dying on the stairway for their Queen.  But it was no use.  France has undergone some subtle change, yet I knew I was in France.  I knew it when we left Paris and sped through the dim leafy tunnels of the Bois; when I beheld a touch of filtered sunlight on the dense blue thatch of the ‘marroniers’ behind the walls of a vast estate once dedicated to the sports and pleasures of Kings; when I caught glimpses of silent chateaux mirrored in still waters.

I was on my way, with one of our naval officers, to visit an American naval base on the western coast.  It was France, but the laughter had died on her lips.  A few women and old men and children were to be seen in the villages, a bent figure in a field, an occasional cart that drew aside as we hurried at eighty kilometers an hour along deserted routes drawn as with a ruler across the land.  Sometimes the road dipped into a canyon of poplars, and the sky between their crests was a tiny strip of mottled blue and white.  The sun crept in and out, the clouds cast shadows on the hills; here and there the tower of lonely church or castle broke the line of a distant ridge.  Morning-glories nodded over lodge walls where the ivy was turning crimson, and the little gardens were masses of colours—­French colours like that in the beds of the Tuileries, brick-red geraniums and dahlias, yellow marigolds and purple asters.

We lunched at one of the little inns that for generations have been tucked away in the narrow streets of provincial towns; this time a Cheval Blanc, with an unimposing front and a blaze of sunshine in its heart.  After a dejeuner fit for the most exacting of bon viveurs we sat in that courtyard and smoked, while an ancient waiter served us with coffee that dripped through silver percolators into our glasses.  The tourists have fled.  “If happily you should come again, monsieur,” said madame, as she led me with pardonable pride through her immaculate bedrooms and salons with wavy floors.  And I dwelt upon a future holiday there, on the joys of sharing with a friend that historic place.  The next afternoon I lingered in another town, built on a little hill ringed about with ancient walls, from whose battlements tide-veined marshes stretched away to a gleaming sea.  A figure flitting through the cobbled streets, a woman in black who sat sewing, sewing in a window, only served to heighten the impression of emptiness, to give birth to the odd fancy that some alchemic quality in the honeyed sunlight now steeping it must have preserved the place through the ages.  But in the white close surrounding the church were signs that life still persisted.  A peasant was drawing water at the pump, and the handle made a noise; a priest chatted with three French ladies who had come over from a neighbouring seaside resort.  And then a woman in deep mourning emerged from a tiny shop and took her bicycle from against the wall and spoke to me.