It was Christmas Eve, and I had decorated the _ambulance_ with festoons of green leaves. I had made pretty little chapels in front of the Virgin Mary, and the young priest from St. Sulpice came to take part in our poor but poetical Christmas service. He repeated some beautiful prayers, and the wounded men, many of whom were from Brittany, sang some sad, solemn songs, full of charm. Porel, the present manager of the Vaudeville Theater, had been wounded on the Avron Plateau. He was then convalescent, and was one of my guests, together with two officers now ready to leave the _ambulance_. That Christmas supper is one of my most charming and at the same time most melancholy memories. It was served in the small room which we had made into a bedroom. Our three beds were covered with draperies and skins which I had fetched from home, and we used them as seats. Mlle. Hocquigny had sent me five yards of white pigs’ pudding,[1] the famous Christmas dish, and all my poor soldiers who were well enough, were delighted with this delicacy. One of my friends had had twenty large brioche cakes made for me, and I had ordered some large bowls of punch, the colored flames from which amused the grown-up sick children immensely. The young priest from St. Sulpice accepted a piece of brioche and, after taking a little white wine, left us. Ah, how charming and good he was, that poor young priest! And how well he managed to make that unbearable Fortin cease talking. Gradually the latter began to get humanized, until finally he began to think the priest was a good sort of fellow. Poor young priest! He was shot by the Communists, and I cried for days and days over his murder. Footnote 1: In France “_white pudding_” is as often eaten as “_black pudding_,” and is somewhat similar in taste. CHAPTER XII MORE HOSPITAL DAYS The month of January arrived. The army of the enemy held Paris day by day in a still closer grip. Food was getting scarce. Bitter cold enveloped the city, and the poor soldiers who fell, sometimes only slightly wounded, passed away gently in a sleep that was eternal, their brains numbed and their bodies half frozen. No more news could be received from outside; but thanks to the United States Minister, who had chosen to remain in Paris, a letter arrived from time to time. It was in this way that I received a thin slip of paper, as delicate as a primrose petal, bringing me the following message: “Everyone well. Courage. A thousand kisses. Your mother.” This impalpable missive dated from seventeen days previously. And so my mother, my sisters, and my little boy were at The Hague all this time, and my mind which had been continually traveling in their direction had been wandering along the wrong route, toward Hâvre, where I thought they were established tranquilly at the house of a cousin of my father’s mother.