The New Year has come. I feel the presence of the white rabbit today, the tapping of his finger on the clock, and the ticking of its hands. Already there lay many Frenchmen who will not see 1915, and truthfully it becomes increasingly reasonable to say that no Frenchman saw the New Year. All the Frenchmen are dead. All that remains are the new Prussians and the members of the new American immigration waves such that myself and our group belong to. We are, I suppose, Americans now, for we cannot possibly be French. 1915 never saw French Paris. I didn’t expect any different.