LADY DOROTHY, THE GREAT DUNE.
May, 1915.
We are at table. Major Peigné presides at breakfast of the officers of the 19th Company, 2nd Battalion. The subjects of conversation which recur each day in a sappers' kitchen have been exhausted: progress of work along the sector, effect of the last bombardment, news of the absent ones, criticism of work accomplished by the soldiers, next permissions;[7] then we take up the eternal question, the only one which counts, assuredly, woman.
There have been many weeks in which not a one of us has seen a woman's petticoat, not a one, I swear it!
To be in this cursed city of Nieuport is not an enviable "visit at the seashore"—the enemy systematically persists in destroying it: the Casino, the villas and the approaches to the pier are completely torn to pieces. Can you imagine a woman in such a place?
Stories of woman, adventures of woman, anecdotes of woman, serve as topics of conversations. "When you haven't the object of your desires," said a profound philosopher, "you speak of it."
The conversation became general again, when, all at once, Lieutenant Divisia silenced us with a finger before him. No, it was impossible to be deceived, my word upon it, a woman's voice was heard in the next room!
Had a 420 fallen in the midst of us, the silence could not have been more impressive—of course realizing that it would have flattened us like pancakes. But, quickly and with remarkable unison, we arose quietly with the same intention——
Yet, with an energetic gesture, Major Peigné, who never lost a bet, stopped us and made for the door.