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Mr. Paul left on the 2 o’clock train. He is now seven months old. He was all wrapped in a kind of big white burnous, with a hood, because it’s getting very cold. I accompanied him to the station. He was in his maid’s arms, and I thought he would be frightened, or at least surprised, by the haphazard movement on the platforms, where the crowds bustle noisily, to which are added the sound of locomotives shunting and the clatter of trains entering the station. Not at all. The spectacle seemed barely to interest him. He got on with his own little life and his dream, thumb in mouth; he continued to be what he is: magnificently independent.

Diary, December 1940