Nothing is hopeless, and, above all, nothing has changed our idea of the part we have to play. Tell all those who love me a little that I think of them. I have no time to write to any one. My health is of the best. . . . After such an upheaval we may say that our former life is dead. Dear mother, let us, you and I, with all our courage adapt ourselves to an existence entirely different, however long it may last. Be very sure that I won't go out of my way to do anything that endangers our happiness, but that I'll try to satisfy my conscience, and yours. Up till now I am without cause for self-reproach, and so I hope to remain. _August 25_ (2nd letter). A second letter to tell you that, instead of our regiment, it was Pierre's that went. I had the joy of seeing him pass in front of me when I was on guard in the town. I accompanied him for a hundred yards, then we said good-bye. I had a feeling that we should meet again. It is the gravest of hours; the country will not die, but her deliverance will be snatched only at the price of frightful efforts. Pierre's regiment went covered with flowers, and singing. It was a deep consolation to be together till the end. It is fine of Andre[1] to have saved his drowning comrade. We don't realise the reserve of heroism there is in France, and among the young intellectual Parisians. In regard to our losses, I may tell you that whole divisions have been wiped out. Certain regiments have not an officer left. As for my state of mind, my first letter will perhaps tell you better what I believe to be my duty. Know that it would be shameful to think for one instant of holding back when the race demands the sacrifice. My only part is to carry an undefiled conscience as far as my feet may lead. [Footnote 1: Second Lieutenant Andre Cadoux, who died gloriously in battle on April 13, 1915.] _August 26._ MY VERY DEAR MOTHER,--I was made happy by Maurice Barres's fine article, 'l'Aigle et le Rossignol,' which corresponds in every detail with what I feel. The depots contain some failures, but also men of fine energy, among whom I dare not yet count myself, but with whom I hope to set out. The major had dispensed me from carrying a knapsack, but I carry it for practice and manage quite well. The only assurance which I can give you concerns my own moral and physical state, which is excellent. The true death would be to live in a conquered country, above all for me, whose art would perish. I isolate myself as much as I can, and I am really unaffected, from the intellectual point of view. Besides, the atmosphere of the mess is well above that of normal times: the trouble is that the constant moving and changing drags us about from place to place, and growing confidence falters before the perpetually recurring unknown. _August 30._