At that particular moment he was inscribing an anecdote which he had just heard some one telling in his mother's drawing room.
"The President of the Republic once asked General de Castelnau, 'Well, General, what shall you do after the war is over?'
"'Weep for my sons, Mr. President.'"
"But, Jules, why do you write such things?" I queried.
"Because it's splendid, and I put down everything I know or hear that's beautiful or splendid."
And true enough, pêle mêle with portraits he had cut out and pasted, plans for aeroplanes that he had drawn, were copies of extraordinary citations for bravery, memorable dates and descriptions of battles.
In the Summer of 1915, my friend Jeanne took her small baby and her daughter Annette, aged five, to their little country home on the seashore in Brittany. The father, over military age, remained in town to look after some patriotic work.
Help was hard to get, and Jeanne not over strong was torn between household duties and her infant son, so that Annette, clad in a bathing suit and sweater, spent most of her time on the beach in company with other small people of her own years.
Astonished at seeing the little one so much alone, certain kind-hearted mothers invited her to partake of their bread, chocolate and other dainties provided for the gouter of their own offspring, and as the child gladly and continually accepted, her apparent abandon became a subject of conversation, and they decided to question Annette.
"Where is your mother, dear?"