“Chosen one! Oh, no! We have an unpublished one, as new as the company itself, composed for us and created by us. Will you do us the honor of listening to it?” “Will I? The devil. I ask it; I demand it. I want to learn it, too. Go on. Start it!” he exclaimed. And then Gaix turned towards his comrades and began to sing in his great deep baritone voice our marching song, “Ma Mitrailleuse,” which each section had learned secretly and which they sang together for the first time to-day. On a rhythm taken from some war march, some one had composed simple words, which were nevertheless image-provoking and vibrant, where the alternating motet “Ma Mitrailleuse,” sung in chorus, sounds like a bugle call. This marching song is one of those which engrave themselves at once on the memory and in the heart, which are never forgotten, for in their accents are rooted the strongest impressions of the hours lived in the simple brotherhood of arms, the memory of dangers encountered together, the pride of victories, and the pious homage to those who sang it with us and whose manly voices were silenced forever in the night of battles. And I find in writing it the same deep stirring emotion that I experienced when I first heard it. _MA MITRAILLEUSE_ _Sur notre front, dans ton abri,_ _Tu dors sur ton trépied bleu gris,_ _Calme dans l’ombre vaporeuse,_ _Ma mitrailleuse._ _Et ton canon d’acier bleui_ _Benoîtement perce la nuit._ _Que tu parais peu dangereuse,_ _Ma mitrailleuse._ _Si parfois en te transportant_ _Je trouve ton poids fatigant,_ _Et dis tout bas “la sacré gueuse!”_ _Ma mitrailleuse,_ _Pardonne-moi, car j’ai grand tort,_ _Sachant que tu chantes la mort_ _De l’Allemagne furieuse,_ _Ma mitrailleuse._ _Mais dans le petit jour blêmi,_ _Alerte! Voici l’ennemi!_ _Et t’éveillant soudain rageuse,_ _Ma mitrailleuse,_ _Avec tes tac tac réguliers_ _Fauche les Boches par milliers,_ _Sans t’arrêter, noire et fumeuse,_ _Ma mitrailleuse._ _Et comme nous elle attendra_ _Le grand jour qui déclanchera_ _L’offensive victorieuse,_ _Ma mitrailleuse._ _Poursuivant le bandit germain,_ _J’entendrai sur les bords du Rhin,_ _Au grand soleil, claquer joyeuse_ _Ma mitrailleuse._ When the last accents, sung by the men at the top of their lungs, died away, there was silence and I looked at the lieutenant. He was seated on a staircase, with his head leaning on his clenched fists. He had listened to the whole song, and now he remained for a moment as if waiting. And when he stood up his eyes were slightly red and his lips concealed under a smile the impress of intense emotion.