The press is still making reassuring remarks—“The Weygand Line will hold fast!”—meanwhile “German infiltration” has got as far as the Somme, reaching Forges-les-Eaux ... In the June sunlight, the Champs-Elysees still keeps its smiling face. I am resolved to put off leaving until almost the last train, for I still feel some vague hope that the situation will mend, and I have practically no money. When Paris ends the world ends; useless to see the truth, how could one bear to acknowledge it? On Sunday the 9th, I see Cabinet ministers moving house. Cars, blanketed with mattresses and overloaded with trunks, hurry off towards the city’s southern gates. Shops close. The Paris of these last evenings is splendid. The great empty boulevards enter into the night with an extraordinary nobility. The darkened squares exude an air of calm and dormant power. People, too, are calm, showing greater fortitude in disaster than they seemed to before. The idea arises that they did not deserve this defeat. History had turned against them and the government of this people was so different from the people! What could the man in the street do if the French metal industry was crumbling away for lack of investment? What power did he have over capital?