_January 27, afternoon._

After two bad nights in the billet owing to the lack of straw, the third
night was interrupted by our sudden departure for our emplacement in the
second line.

Superb weather, frost and sun.

Great Nature begins again to enfold me, and her voice, which is now
powerful again, consoles me.--But, dear, what a hole in one's existence!
Yes, since my promotion I have lived through moments which, though less
terrible, recalled the first days of September, but with the addition of
many blessings. I accept this new life, with no forecast of the future.


_January 28, in the morning sun._

The hard and splendid weather has this marvellous good--that it leaves
in its great pure sky an open door for poetry. Yes, all that I told you
of that beautiful time of snow came from a heart that was comforted by
such triumphant beauty.

In the Reviews you send me I have read with pleasure the articles on
Molière, on the English parliament, on Martainville, and on the
religious questions of 1830. . . .

Did I tell you that I learnt from the papers of the death of
Hillemacher? That dear friend was killed in this terrible war.