British pluck to the assembled _poilus_. I hastened to impress on the
surgeon that I hated notoriety and would prefer to remain modestly in
the background. I even pushed aside with scorn the proffered bribe of
six "boche" buttons, assuring the man that "I would keep my toothache as
a souvenir."

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 writer's 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 is
so great. I am proud, indeed proud, that at sixty-seven years of age I
am not useless."

At one hospital 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 écris à vous pour ne pas tuer Maman qu'un pareil coup
surprendrait trop.

"J'ai été blessé le ... devant.... J'ai deux blessures hideuses et je
n'en aurai pas pour bien longtemps. Les majors ne me le cachent même
pas.