The day fixed for the attack came. The first company--François’ company--was sent ahead to skirmish. It was simply mowed down. Another followed, and then another. They finally had to fall back, leaving their dead and part of the wounded on the field. The little second lieutenant was not among those who returned. Two days later our men took the offensive again. The elder brother, storming the German trenches with his regiment, passed close by the body of his little François as it lay there all shot to pieces. A bit farther on, a bullet caught him in the shoulder. His captain ordered him back to have the wound dressed; he refused, kept on, and was hit full in the forehead. The bodies were taken up and carried back to the ruins of the village. The sappers of the 26th said: “He was a fine fellow, that little second lieutenant. He shan’t go underground without a coffin, at any rate. Let’s make one for him.” And they began sawing and hammering. Then the men of the 27th put their heads together and said: “There must be no difference between the two brothers. We might as well make a coffin for our lieutenant, too.” By nightfall, when they were ready to bury the brothers side by side, an old woman spoke up. She was a wretched old creature, so poor and broken that she stubbornly refused to leave the village. “I’ve lived here, I’ll die here,” she kept on saying. She lay huddled up on some straw in her little hovel, and her only food was the leavings of the soldiers. When she saw the bodies of the two lads and understood what was going on, she said: “Wait a minute before you nail the covers on. I’m going to fetch something.” She hobbled away, fumbled around in the straw she slept on, and pulled out a piece of cloth that she was keeping for her shroud. “They shan’t nail those boys up with their faces against the boards. I want to shroud them,” she said. She cut the shroud in two and wrapped each in a half of it. Then she kissed each one of them on the forehead, saying, “That’s for your mother, dearie.” * * * * * No one spoke when the General ended. And he was not the only one to have wet eyes. In each of our hearts there was a prayer for France. MAURICE BARRÈS _de l’Académie Française_ 1915 UNE PROMESSE Séchez vos larmes, Enfants des Flandres! Car les canons, les mitrailleuses, les fusils, les sabres et les bras n’arrêteront leur élan que lorsque l’ennemi vaincu vous rendra vos foyers! Et ces foyers; nous, les femmes de France, d’Angleterre, de Russie et d’Italie, nous les ensoleillerons. SARAH BERNHARDT 1915 A PROMISE [TRANSLATION] Children of Flanders, dry your tears! For all the mighty machinery of war, and the stout hearts of brave men, shall strive together till the vanquished foe has given you back your homes! And to those homes made desolate, we, the women of France, of England, of Russia and of Italy, will bring again happiness and sunlight! SARAH BERNHARDT