duty. Know that it would be shameful to think
for one instant of holding back when the race demands the sacrifice. My
only part is to carry an undefiled conscience as far as my feet may
lead.

[Footnote 1: Second Lieutenant Andre Cadoux, who died gloriously in
battle on April 13, 1915.]

_August 26._

MY VERY DEAR MOTHER,--I was made happy by Maurice Barres's fine article,
'l'Aigle et le Rossignol,' which corresponds in every detail with what I
feel.

The depots contain some failures, but also men of fine energy, among
whom I dare not yet count myself, but with whom I hope to set out. The
major had dispensed me from carrying a knapsack, but I carry it for
practice and manage quite well.

The only assurance which I can give you concerns my own moral and
physical state, which is excellent. The true death would be to live in a
conquered country, above all for me, whose art would perish.

I isolate myself as much as I can, and I am really unaffected, from the
intellectual point of view. Besides, the atmosphere of the mess is well
above that of normal times: the trouble is that the constant moving and
changing drags us about from place to place, and growing confidence
falters before the perpetually recurring unknown.

_August 30._

. . . My little mother, it is certain that though we did not leave
yesterday, it is yet only a question of hours. I won't say to you
anything that I have already said, content only that I have from you the
approval of which I was certain.

. . . In the very hard march yesterday only one man fell out, really ill.
France will come out of this bad pass.

I can only repeat to you how well I am prepared for all eventualities,
and that nothing can undo our twenty-seven years of happiness. I am
resolved not to consider myself foredoomed, and I fancy the joy of
returning, but I am ready to go to the end of my strength. If you knew
the shame I should endure to think that I might have done something
more!

In the midst of all this sadness we live through magnificent hours, when
the things that used to be most strange take on an august significance.

_September 4, 6 o'clock_
(_on the way, in the train_).

We have had forty hours of a journey in which the picturesque outdoes
even the extreme discomfort. The great problem is sleep, and the
solution is not easy when there are forty in a cattle-truck.

The train stops every instant, and we encounter the unhappy refugees.
Then the wounde