y, and try to believe that
from this separation, which is cruel for us, others may get some
benefit. Tomorrow, I am to be received at the Elysee by the President,
and I am going to try to make him say something that will draw money
from America for the French hospitals. If he will only ask, I know our
people will give. In a day or two, I think I will be allowed to see
something, but, that you will know best by reading The Times.

Your loving husband is lonely for you, and so it will be always.

RICHARD.

November 17th.

DEAR SWEETHEART:

My last letter was such a complaining one that I am ashamed. But, not
leaving me to decide what was best for the papers, made me mad. Since
I wrote, I ought to be madder, for I have been to the trenches outside
of Rheims in Champagne; and, had they not deviled the spirit out of me
with cables, I believe I could have written such a lot of stories of
France that no one else has had the opportunity to write. Believe me
no one has yet told the story of the trench war. Anyway, in spite of
all the photographs and articles, to me it was all new. I was allowed
to go alone, and given carte blanche to see whatever I wished. I saw
everything, but it would not be possible to write of it yet. It was
wonderful. I was in the three lines, reaching the FIRST line by
moonlight. No one spoke above a whisper. The Germans were only 300 to
400 yards distant. But worst of all were the rats. They ran over my
feet and I was a darned sight more afraid of them than the Germans. I
saw the Cathedral, and the only hotel open (from which I sent you and
Hope a postal) was the same one in which we stopped a year ago. I had
sent the hotel my book in which I said complimentary things, and I got
a great welcome. They even gave me a room with a fire in it, and so I
was warm for the first time since I left the Crossroads. And this
morning it SNOWED. On my way back to Paris, I stopped to tell the
General what I had seen and to thank him. He said, "Oh, that is
nothing. When you return, I will take you out myself, and I will show
you something worth while." I am going to carry a rat-trap, and two
terriers on a leash. Tonight, when I got back, there was a letter from
you, but no writing, but there was a photo of Her, and me holding her.
How is it possible that any living thing is so beautiful as my child?
How fat, and wonderful, and dear, and lovable, and how terribly I want
to hold her as I am h