“Take the direction of Courgivault.  Reconnoitre and find out whether the village is occupied.  You will report to me on the road which leads straight from here to the village.  The brigade will follow you in an hour by the same road.  I am sending two other parties towards such and such villages.”

And a few minutes afterwards I was on the road to Courgivault.

I chose from my troop a corporal and four reliable fellows who had already given a good account of themselves.  In advance I sent Vercherin, as scout, well mounted on his horse “Cabri,” whose powerful haunches stood out above the tall oats.  I had full confidence in his vigilance and his shrewdness.  I knew his clear blue eyes, and that, if there were anything to be seen, he would see it better than any one else.  I knew also that I should have no need to spur his zeal.

On either side of me Corporal Madelaine, Finet, a sapper, Lemaitre, and my faithful orderly, Wattrelot, rode along in silence in extended order at a considerable distance from one another.  We had learnt by experience since the beginning of the campaign.  We were on our guard now against Prussian bullets.  We knew what ravages they made directly our troopers were imprudent enough to cluster together.  Thus we ran fewer chances of being taken by surprise.

The weather was splendid.  How delightful, thought I, would it have been to walk over the fields, on a morning like this, with a gun under my arm, behind a good dog, in quest of partridges or a hare.  But I had other game in view—­no doubt more dangerous, but how much more exciting!

The air was wonderfully clear, without the least trace of mist.  The smallest detail of hedge and ditch could be easily distinguished.  Our lungs breathed freely.  We foresaw that the heat would be oppressive in a few hours’ time, but the fresh air of the night still lingered, and bright pearls of dew still lay on the lucerne and stubble.  What a joy to be alive in such delicious surroundings, with the hope of victory in one’s heart!

I fancy that those who have not been in this war will not be able to understand me, for I have not the skill to explain clearly what I feel by means of written words.  A more practised pen than mine is needed for such a task, a mind more accustomed to analyse feelings.

I seem to have within me the inspiration of a strange power that makes me light as air, and inclined to talk aloud to myself.  And if I wanted to speak I certainly should not find the words I wanted.  Perhaps it is that I simply want to shout, to cry “Hurrah!” again and again.  It must be that, for I find myself clenching my teeth instinctively to prevent myself from giving way to such an untimely outburst.

Nevertheless, it would be a relief to be able to shout at the top of my voice and sing hymns of glory confronting the enemy.  I should like to hear the whole army following my example behind me, to hear all the bands and all the trumpets accompanying our advance with those matchless war-songs which thrill the soul and bring tears to the eyes.