Farther on, towards the ambulances, the burying of the dead: there are six, stretched on two waggons. Smoothed out, and covered with rags, they are taken to an open pit at the foot of a Calvary. Some priests conduct, rather than celebrate, the service, military as they have become. A little straw and some holy water over all, and so we pass on. After all, these dead are happy: they are cared-for dead. What can be said of those who lie farther on and who have passed away after nights of the throes of death and abandonment. . . . From this agony there will remain to us an immense yearning for pity and brotherhood and goodness. _Wednesday, September 16, 1914._ In the horror-zone. The rainy twilight shadows the road, and suddenly, in a ditch--the dead! They have dragged themselves here from the battlefield--they are all corrupt now. The coming of darkness makes it difficult to distinguish their nationality, but the same great pity envelops them all. Only one word for them: poor boy! The night for these ignominies--and then again the morning. The day rises upon the swollen bodies of dead horses. In the corner of a wood, carnage, long cold. One sees only open sacks, ripped nose-bags. Nothing that looks like life remains. Among them some civilians, whose presence is due to the German proceeding of making French hostages march under our fire. If these notes should reach any one, may they give rise in an honest heart to horror of the foul crime of those responsible for this war. There will never be enough glory to cover all the blood and all the mud. _September 21, 1914._ War in rain. It is suffering beyond what can be imagined. Three days and three nights without being able to do anything but tremble and moan, and yet, in spite of all, perfect service must be rendered. To sleep in a ditch full of water has no equivalent in Dante, but what can be said of the awakening, when one must watch for the moment to kill or to be killed! Above, the roar of the shells drowns the whistling of the wind. Every instant, firing. Then one crouches in the mud, and despair takes possession of one's soul. When this torment came to an end I had such a nervous collapse that I wept without knowing why--late, useless tears. _September 25._ Hell in so calm and pastoral a place. The autumnal country pitted and torn by cannon! _September 27._ If, apart from the greater lessons of the war, there are small immediate benefits to be had, the one that means most to me is the contemplation of the night sky. Never has the majesty of the night brought me so much consolation as during this accumulation of trials. Venus, sparkling, is a friend to me. . . . I am now familiar with the constellations. Some of them make great curves in the sky as if to encircle the throne of God. What glory! And how one evokes the Chaldean shepherds! O constellations! first alphabet!. . . _October 1._