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Updated: June 18, 2025
A big bakery in the saved district started its ovens and arranged to bake 50,000 loaves before night. The provisions were taken charge of by a committee and sent to the various depots from which the people were being fed. Instructions were issued by Mayor Schmitz on Thursday to break open every store containing provisions and to distribute them to the thousands under police supervision.
A saturnine man took him up in a little box-like elevator, pointing out a door inscribed: A. RUEF, Att'y-at-Law. The reception-room was filled. Half a dozen men and two women sat in chairs which lined the walls. A businesslike young man inquired Francisco's errand. "You'll have to wait your turn," he said. "I can't go in there now ... he's in conference with Mr. Schmitz."
Yesterday evening on the Boulevards there were groups discussing "the traitors." Some said that General Schmitz had been arrested; others that he ought to be arrested. A patriot observed to me that all foreigners in Paris ought, as a precautionary measure, to be extirpated. "Parbleu," I replied, and you may depend upon it I rolled my eyes and shrugged my shoulders in true Gallic fashion.
"What would become of morals and honour and law and all the rest of it, if that sort of thing obtained?" "Law?" Amy caught him up. "Law? It's become foolish. No man lives capable of mastering it so completely that another man cannot find flaws in his best efforts. Reuf and Schmitz are guilty everybody says so, even themselves. Why aren't they in jail? Because of the law. Don't talk to me of law!"
Schmitz was like an open window through which I looked out upon an unknown world. I held long conversations with him upon life, literature, art and philosophy. I recall that I took him one Sunday afternoon to the home of Don Juan Valera. When Schmitz and I arrived, Valera had just settled down for the afternoon to listen to his daughter, who was reading aloud one of the latest novels of Zola.
My first afternoon Schmitz sauntered about to see what he could find out. Where did I live, what did I do evenings, what time did I get up mornings, what did I do Sundays? One question mark was Schmitz. One thing only he did not ask me, because he knew that. He always could tell what nationality a person was just by looking at him. So? Yes, and he knew first thing what nationality I was. So?
On my return into Paris, however, I found the following proclamation of the Government posted on the walls: "2 p.m. The attack commenced this morning by a great deployment from Mont Valérien to Nogent, the combat has commenced and continues everywhere, with favourable chances for us. Schmitz." The people on the Boulevards seem to imagine that a great victory has been gained.
Don't you understand hotel work is just like a factory? Everybody must be in his place all day and not go wandering off!” “Ever work in a factory?” I asked Schmitz. He deigned no answer. “Well, then, I'm telling you I have, and hotel work ain't like a factory at all.” “Vell, you see it's dis vay—naturally—”
But this is not all: the newspapers hint that there are spies at headquarters. General Schmitz has a valet who has a wife, and this wife is a German. What more clear than that General Schmitz confides what passes at councils of war to his valet generals usually do; that the valet confides it to his wife, who, in some mysterious manner, confides it to Bismarck.
Another friendship which I found stimulating was that of Paul Schmitz, a Swiss from Basle, who had come to Madrid because of some weakness of the lungs, spending three years among us in order to rehabilitate himself. Schmitz had studied in Switzerland and in Germany, and also had lived for a long time in the north of Russia.
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