What has been capable of causing this metamorphosis in me?  A story, a legend, perhaps, told, at any rate by one on whom rests the direst of suspicions.

Cegheir-ben-Cheikh has finished his cigarette.  I hear him returning with slow steps to his mat, in barrack B, to the left of the guard post.

Our departure being scheduled for the tenth of November, the manuscript attached to this letter was begun on Sunday, the first, and finished on Thursday, the fifth of November, 1903.

Olivier Ferrieres, Lt. 3rd Spahis.

I

A SOUTHERN ASSIGNMENT

Sunday, the sixth of June, 1903, broke the monotony of the life that we were leading at the Post of Hassi-Inifel by two events of unequal importance, the arrival of a letter from Mlle. de C——­, and the latest numbers of the Official Journal of the French Republic.

“I have the Lieutenant’s permission?” said Sergeant Chatelain, beginning to glance through the magazines he had just removed from their wrappings.

I acquiesced with a nod, already completely absorbed in reading Mlle. de C——­’s letter.

“When this reaches you,” was the gist of this charming being’s letter, “mama and I will doubtless have left Paris for the country.  If, in your distant parts, it might be a consolation to imagine me as bored here as you possibly can be, make the most of it.  The Grand Prix is over.  I played the horse you pointed out to me, and naturally, I lost.  Last night we dined with the Martials de la Touche.  Elias Chatrian was there, always amazingly young.  I am sending you his last book, which has made quite a sensation.  It seems that the Martials de la Touche are depicted there without disguise.  I will add to it Bourget’s last, and Loti’s, and France’s, and two or three of the latest music hall hits.  In the political word, they say the law about congregations will meet with strenuous opposition.  Nothing much in the theatres.  I have taken out a summer subscription for l’Illustration.  Would you care for it?  In the country no one knows what to do.  Always the same lot of idiots ready for tennis.  I shall deserve no credit for writing to you often.  Spare me your reflections concerning young Combemale.  I am less than nothing of a feminist, having too much faith in those who tell me that I am pretty, in yourself in particular.  But indeed, I grow wild at the idea that if I permitted myself half the familiarities with one of our lads that you have surely with your Ouled-Nails....  Enough of that, it is too unpleasant an idea.”

I had reached this point in the prose of this advanced young woman when a scandalized exclamation of the Sergeant made me look up.

“Lieutenant!”

“Yes?”

“They are up to something at the Ministry.  See for yourself.”

He handed me the Official.  I read: