In front, a hill behind which the battle is being fought. The panting of the _mitrailleuses_ may be clearly distinguished, by reason of its regularity, from the intermittent rending and tearing of musketry discharges. Suddenly a shell bursts, a distance of two hundred yards away. The cloud of black smoke rises and disperses almost immediately. Then come other shells at regular intervals. Are we the enemy's target? No. His object is to reach a village on our right and a wood of fir-trees on our left; the black clouds appear in turn over a house in the village, near the church steeple, over the wood. Suddenly, from the edge of the wood, four thunderous claps go off. Shouts of joy, as the section exclaims-- "Those are our 75's replying!" They are speaking now in all directions. We are greatly excited, for every one is delighted at the spectacle of a real battle obtained so cheaply. No one is afraid. Not a single heroic word is uttered; merely rapid interjections. "Ah! What a pity! There goes the steeple!" And indeed, the steeple falls crashing to the ground as though it were no more substantial than a child's toy. It must surely have been made of cardboard to have crumpled up so quickly. Still lying at full length on the grass, I pick a couple of flowers and place them in my pocket-book as a souvenir. Are we to spend the whole day basking in the sun? The other sections rise and advance; we do the same. We make our way towards a wood over the hill opposite. We skirmish along a road, beneath the firs. Near a tree, a dragoon, his breast bare and feet firmly planted on the ground, is having his back examined by a major; on his shoulder-blade is a large gash, from which the blood is dripping as from a tap. On the ground, by the wounded man's side--this is the first wounded soldier I have seen--lie his helmet and his arms, his coat and shirt. The roar of battle increases; it is as though invisible hands were beating away with huge sticks on a number of carpets. We think we recognize the enemy's _mitrailleuses_ by their _tacotacotac_, which continues for several seconds; whereas ours stop, begin again, stop once more, in less mechanical fashion. The roar of our 75's may be distinguished amid the deafening crash; they go off in fours, with a sharp, clear crack. The lieutenant arrives. We ask him-- "Where are the others?" It is not his mission to tell us, but rather to send us over to a battery which is calling for infantry support. The four cannon are close at hand, small, and with mouth pointing upwards. They have not been marked, fortunately for the gunners and for ourselves as well. The lieutenant is on the watch a few yards away, and we hear the words of command. The enemy is drawing nearer; a short time ago he was 2,400 yards away, then 2,000, and now he is within 1,800 yards. Soon the captain of the battery gives the order-- "Bring up the limbers!"