My first sentence revealed everything to her. It was a mutilated man, I told her, who was tracing these lines to her.... I stopped short, and turned over to bury my head in my pillow. Tears rose to my eyes! Then I recovered myself. I so much wanted this letter to appear a normal continuation of the others. When I re-read it, I was struck by the deadly heart-break depicted in it, in spite of myself! I was on the point of tearing the pages to pieces. I stayed for a long time, balancing them in my hands. Then I finally decided to slip them into the envelope; my salvation lay entirely in the pity I should inspire. Some days passed by in boredom, and overwhelming anxiety, the reason of which I now forbade myself to specify. I tried in vain to distract my thoughts. My father read the papers aloud to me--those around me profited by it. With the monotonous delivery of an officer giving the order of the day, he sometimes stirred us all in pronouncing the word Victory. He had to take off his glasses which were dimmed. But the Press no longer reflected the same enthusiasm evinced for the "Battle of the Marne." The thankless battle of the Aisne was dragging on, and becoming endless. We began to feel that the enemy would hold out for a long time on this stolen territory. There was heavy fighting going on in the North. Our left and the German right struggling to outstrip each other in their race for the coast--fierce cavalry encounters round Aire and Hazebrouck.... And there were already sinister rumours abroad concerning the probable fate of Anvers. I bore myself a grudge for not being more thrilled. I urged myself to lose sight of my individual misery, in order to continue in communion with my noble nation. I tried hard to do it, but my efforts were in vain! An epistle from Guillaumin reached me. He was safe and sound, and was anxious to be reassured on my account. His letter contained some details. Yes, poor De Valpic had fallen. His body had been identified, and was reposing in hallowed ground, beneath a cross. The platoon had been reduced to half its strength the day after Nanteuil, but reinforcements had arrived during the following days. They had been engaged over and over again since then, and were fighting nearly every day; yesterday again at Guennevières. They did not forget me in all that! Guillaumin enclosed in his letter a joint card signed by each _poilu_. One shaky scrawl was from the hand of poor Donnadieu, hit by a splinter in the abdomen, and who, so my friend told me, had succumbed during the night. Who would believe that I put off answering him. And, for that matter, my sister-in-law, too, who had sent me several affectionate missives. Sometimes it was enervation which tortured me, as I lay there, sometimes a gloomy atony.