At one of the hospitals beside the bed of a dying man sat a little
old man writing letters. They told me that before the war he had
owned the most flourishing wine shop in the village. He had fled
before the approach of the German troops, but later returned to his
village and installed himself in the hospital as scribe. He wrote
from morning until night, and, watching him stretching his lean old
hands, I asked him if he suffered much pain from writers' cramp.
He looked at me almost reproachfully before answering, "Mademoiselle,
it is the least I can do for my country; besides my pain is so slight
and that of the comrades so great. I am proud, indeed proud,
that at sixty-seven years of age I am not useless."

I was shown a copy of the last letter dictated by a young French
officer, and I asked to be allowed to copy it--it was indeed a letter
of a "chic" type.


Chers Parrain et Marraine,

Je vous ecris a vous pour ne pas tuer Maman qu'un pareil coup
surprendrait trop.

J'ai ete blesse le ... devant ... J'ai deux blessures hideuses et je
n'en aurai pas pour bien longtemps. Les majors ne me le cachent
meme pas.

Je pars sans regret avec la conscience d'avoir fait mon devoir.

Prevenez done mes parents le mieux que vous pourrez; qu'ils ne