At that moment a shell burst so close that pictures were torn from the walls and a chair was turned upside down. A cloud of dust spouted through the ventilating shaft--at the same time we heard a rumbling of falling walls, the clattering of splintered glass and broken tiling falling on the ground. [Illustration: Shell hole in the courtyard of Admiral Ronarc'h's commanding post in Nieuport.] We had, for our protection, an arch made of half-thicknesses of bricks. If we must be struck, then we should have, at least, the opportunity of not suffering very long! Each told his story, tales of the sea and of the war--then--that was not all, there was a programme of work to accomplish, and we at once set about the task. * * * * * Toward nightfall, I left the shelter or cave, which I shall never forget. The shell which shook us fell in the courtyard of a house, scooping out a funnel-shaped crater thirty feet in diameter. A Marine discovered the base of the projectile: a 420![3] A comrade who helped him carry it said: "They are foolish if they think they can kill our admiral with a 420, and also be sure that St. Anne of Brittany will curse their German God!" A TELEGRAM FROM ATTILA, NIEUPORT-BATHS. _March_, 1915. Returning from the Great Dune after several days, Captain Perroud and myself stop before the old Nieuport-Baths' station. It is in a pretty state. We enter the ruins and have penetrated as far as the office of the Passenger Agent, all in a tumult, papers scattered everywhere---- Sealed telegrams are seen on the floor, and, it is strange, they have not excited the curiosity of the plunderers, for these latter would have found some fastidious reading. I confess, what concerned me was the desire to open some of them to see what persons could have said at the moment of evacuating Nieuport-Baths. The first was addressed to an English woman, "Mrs. Smith, Regina Hotel, Nieuport-Baths." It said: "Things are beginning to get worse where you are. Nevertheless, do whatever you think best. Smith." I opened the second telegram: "Mademoiselle Y----, Regina Hotel, Nieuport-Baths." It was dated Ostend, October, 1914, and read: "Here there is absolute safety. Come at once. Many kisses! Attila." Among all this tragedy and desolation here, above all, was the final comedy. I folded the telegram and placed it in my pocket. Some weeks later I was dining in Paris at the home of Madame L----, wife of a professor in the _Conservatoire_; I had as my dinner partner the great _artiste_, Suzanne Desprès. [Illustration: Target practice at Sardine Cans, before St. Georges.] After having told a thousand details of our life in the trenches, some frightful enough, others sad, the moment had arrived to inject a note of gaiety into the sombre tableau which I had sketched for them--I drew forth Attila's telegram. A cry escaped my partner. "Mlle. Y----, she was one of my company in the Théâtre de l'OEuvre!" "And Attila?"