"You have given us many wounded to tend. Where are your majors?"
See what he answered me. "They have abandoned us."
That evening this Lieutenant-Colonel said to me in a rough voice:
"Some bread, my sister."
"You haven't any bread?" I said. "You have burned our bakery and killed our baker in it. You have burned our butcher shop with our butcher in it. And now you have no bread and no meat. Eat potatoes as we have to."
He was hit in the calf of the leg, but the leg bone was not touched, nor the femur; it was not a severe wound. He unrolled his bandage and showed me his treatment, assuming an air of pain.
"Aie! Aie!" he cried.
Ah! "They" are more soft (douillets) than our poor little French. I began to dress his leg.
"It is terrible, my sister, this war. Terrible for you and for us also. If the French were the least bit intelligent, they would ask for peace at once. Belgium is ours. In three days we shall be at Paris."