Dear mother, it is a night of home-sickness. These familiar verses came to me in the peace:
| 'Mon enfant, ma sœur, |
| Songe à la douceur |
| D'aller là-bas vivre ensemble |
| Au pays qui te ressemble.' |
Yes, Beaudelaire's Invitation au voyage seemed to take wing in the exquisite sky. Oh, I was far from war. Well, to return to earthly things: in coming back I nearly missed my dinner.
January 20, evening.
Acceptation always. Adaptation to the life which goes on and on, taking no notice of our little postulations.
January 21.
We are in our first-line emplacements. The snow has followed us, but alas, the thaw too. Happily, in this emplacement we don't live in water as we do in the trenches.
Can any one describe the grace of winter trees? Did I already tell you what Anatole France says in the Mannequin d'Osier? He loves their delicate outlines and their intimate beauty more when they are uncovered in winter. I too love the marvellous intricate pattern of their branches against the sky.
From my post I can see our poor village, which is collapsing more and more. Each day shells are destroying it. The church is hollowed out, but its old charm remains in its ruins; it crouches so prettily between the two delicately defined hills.