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The good grey little General leads a good grey little life. Just before 9 o'clock each morning he leaves his apartment on the third floor of a five-story house at No. 55 Avenue Foch, near Paris' Arc de Triomphe. He is driven in a staff car to his office in a long, low, old-fashioned building at No. 4 bis Boulevard des Invalides, below the gold dome of Napoleon's tomb.
Except in summer, when the Generalissimo is often away weeks at a time on tours of inspection of French military establishments, Gamelin works at his office all day receiving visitors, holding staff consultations, reading reports, laying out plans, until about 7 p. m.
General Gamelin is very easily approached, his voice is quiet and he is always calm. ("It's no use getting angry at things, it's a matter of indifference to them.") His well-trained memory is still prodigious. He is said not only to know every road near any French frontier, but also to know by name and sight every French officer down through the rank of colonel. He is not chummy with his staff, but treats them with what they call "benevolent formality."
The General usually wears, except on ceremonial occasions, a dark civilian suit. He does not mind the numerous luncheons and dinners he has to attend, likes to go out evenings, to hear opera and ancient music. If he stays home he reads. His library is stocked principally with philosophy, folklore, political and military history and treatises on his other old favorite: map making. He has few friends, but one of his best, oddly enough, is that other able professional, Marshal Pietro Badoglio of Italy. On his 55th birthday General Gamelin married. He and his wife, who is as neutral-toned as her husband, have no children. Madame la Générale enjoys going to maneuvers.
When he was in Brazil, the General did a great deal of riding. He occasionally does some now. When he commanded Chasseurs Alpins he skied and climbed mountains. Mountain skiing is his favorite sport, but he gets almost none of it nowadays. Nor has he touched his paint box for years. "If we could be sure of a little peace for a while," he recently sighed to an aide, "I might get back to painting."
Even the few anecdotes about this thoroughly professional little man take on some of their subject's small, neat dignity. Last year, visiting a Chasseurs' encampment on a mountain plateau, he shook hands with familiar oldtimers and then was taken to the picket line to see some of the St. Bernards who do the outfit's liaison work. Gravely the General kneeled down and shook hands with the best of them, too.