MY VERY DEAR MOTHER,—­What shall I say to you to-day—­a day monotonous with fog.  Occupations that are stupefying, not in themselves, but because of the insipid companionship.  I fall back on myself.  Yesterday I wrote you a long letter, telling you among other things how dear your letters are to me.  When I began to write on this sheet I was a little weary and troubled, but now that I am with you I become happy, and I immediately remember whatever good fortune this day has brought me.

This morning the lieutenant sent me to get some wire from headquarters, in a devastated village which we have surrounded for six weeks.  I went down through the orchards full of the last fallen plums.  A few careless soldiers were gathering them up into baskets.  A charming scene, purely pastoral and bucolic, in spite of the red trousers—­very faded after three months’ campaign. . . .

I am happy in the affection of Ch——­ R——.  His is a nature according in all its elements with my own.  I am sure that he will not be cross with me for not writing, especially if you give a kind message from me to his wife.

The little task confided to me meant walking from nightfall until nine o’clock, but I occasionally lay down in a shelter or in a barn instead of getting back to the trenches for the night.

I do not have good nights of reading now, but sometimes when S——­ and I are lying side by side in the trench, you would not believe what a mirage we evoke and what joy we have in stirred-up memories.  Ah, how science and intellectual phenomena lead us into a very heaven of legends, and what pleasure I get from the marvellous history of this metal, or that acid!  For me the thousand and one nights are renewing themselves.  And then at waking, sometimes, the blessing of a dawn.  That is the life I have led since the 13th or 14th of October.  I ask for nothing, I am content that in such a war we should have relatively a great deal of calm.

You cannot imagine what a consolation it is to know that you give your heart to what concerns me.  What pleasure I have in imagining you interested in my books, looking at my engravings!. . .

November 12, 3 o’clock.

. . .  To-day we have had a march as pleasant as the first one, in weather of great beauty.  We saw, in the blue and rosy distance, the far-off peak of the Metz hills, and the immense panorama scattered over with villages, some of which gathered up the morning light, while others were merely suggested.

This is the broad outline of our existence:  for three days we stay close to the enemy, living in well-constructed shelters which are improved each time; then we spend three days a little way back; and then three days in billets in a neighbouring village, generally the same.  We even gradually form habits—­very passing ones, but still, we have a certain amount of contact with the civil population which has been so sorely tried.  The woollen things are very effectual and precious.