My memory of this first excursion is of a joy which was perfect though uneventful. The great black gate with its heraldic lions was opened by the sentry for the egress of the major and his companions; to the left lay the avenue, the thicket of acacias masking the ditch of retreat; below us, between the shivering, gold-capped birches, the gentle and unending undulations of the plain; to the right, seen obliquely, the yellow out-buildings, the tall hop-poles, the military road cut up by artillery fire, running straight in the direction of the sombre crest of the Franconian Jura, and crossing the huge chessboard of ploughed fields; further on, the little strategic wood, a magnificent growth of fir-trees, larches, and beeches, encircled by stone-pines and oaks, a sort of sacred grove, with an undergrowth of the most varied nature. I was walking in the rear of our little company, going quietly along, avoiding conversation, filled with delight. “Are you still sad, M. Riou?” said the baron. “Oh, no, I am perfectly happy.” The wide sky covering the wide landscape; the delicate lines of the horizon; the purity of the light; the brilliancy of the September tints; the fragrance of the fields; the herds of oxen; the ploughs at work, guided by boys whistling melancholy airs—it was a Virgilian scene. Poor wreckage from the battles of Lorraine that I was, this energy of nature, of peaceful and robust nature, flooded my heart with great waves of mute pleasure far more intense than the intoxication of the senses. After the blood-stained fields of Dieuze, after the fetid prison-house, after qualms, suffocation, base and monotonous wretchedness, it seemed to me that I was coming back to life.