Oh, come along. It had got to be done.... Luckily I need not write much. The noise of the cannonade was a good excuse for brevity. A few sentences would be enough, a suitable expression of my compassion. I signed it. Then I wrote a line to my sister-in-law. That of course was obligatory. Poor little woman! A widow, at twenty-four, with two kids.... The idea of her loneliness and misery saddened me. My pen raced over the paper. I was soon at the end of a sheet. I fastened up these letters with a sigh of relief at having done my duty. But it suddenly struck me that I could not send them. They would run the risk of getting there before the official intimation. I shuddered at the idea. Then why should I have been in such a hurry? Meanwhile I felt about in my pocket, and pulled out a third card. Did I realise at once where my steps were taking me? I think not. I had only written the heading.... And yet! I was smiling; but I was strangely troubled. A line to announce this loss which clouded my campaign, a pitying allusion to the misery of the survivor. What should I add? I was not dissatisfied with the manly words in which I describe us as sending a friendly greeting to a few beings in the world, just as we were about to hurl ourselves into the ghastly furnace. I re-read them with a smile, half-tender, half-sceptical, and slowly and rather dreamily, I addressed the envelope. Mademoiselle Jeannine Landry rue Faidherbe. St-Mandé. When should I be able to despatch this letter? Perhaps I should fall with it on my breast.... And people would think I had been writing to my fiancée! CHAPTER VIII AWAITING OUR CUE I had got up again. The inflamed place on my heel was becoming intolerable. I resigned myself to taking off my shoes and stockings. The head which had formed yesterday had been pulled off. It had a very unhealthy look. An abscess would probably form. What could I do? Report sick? For a sore on my foot! And just now too. But my claim would not be allowed. Bouchut would not look at me! I had seen poor wretches at the manoeuvres forced to march with gory feet, and with septic gatherings from which blood oozed at the pressure.... No, there was no hope for me there! I must go on then, but in future should have to endure fresh torture at each step I took. Guillaumin had joined me. "Your foot again? Let's have a look!" He bent down and examined it. "The counter! Oh! be blowed to it! That is a bore! Why go out of your way to get something different from the regulation boots. I'm delighted with mine. Still it can't be helped. Something must be done for this." I explained that I had treated myself with tincture of iodine. "Diluted, I hope?" "How do you mean?" I learnt from him that the strength supplied now was too caustic. "Some picric acid is what you want on there now." "You haven't got any, I suppose?" "What are you thinking of? I've got a little bit of everything!"