Poor Buche! When we crossed Paris, as we came from the depot, he sent for his wife. Mad with joy, she arrived at the Gare Saint-Lazare, and, in spite of the rush and tumult, immediately found her man. And how she kissed and embraced him! It lasted half an hour, without a word being spoken. From time to time they stopped to gaze into each other's eyes at arm's length. Then the kissing began again.
Finally Madame Buche raised her face towards us and declared stoutly—
"We were married on the 1st of August, 1914. I suppose you think this very droll?"
"Not at all!"
Certainly it is anything but droll now to see Buche wounded, tortured by pain. Jestingly we had said to his wife—
"Don't take it so much to heart, Madame Buche; he's sure to come back, you love him so well."
He comes right up to us, and we question him—
"Is it a bad wound?"
"I should think so. My elbow's completely shattered. It hurts abominably."