"A hoax!" Bujard warned me.
It couldn't be helped. I was consumed with impatience. I wrote, enclosing my cheque. We should see. It would be well worth the twelve pounds it would cost me.
Those were happy weeks, I repeat. I went before a Board; I was passed, and left the hospital. I was free! And had the satisfaction of feeling that I had paid my debt to the full.
I wrote letters, and received them. Madeleine wrote me jewels of sisterly affection. Guillaumin, for his part, sent me picturesque epistles. They had had a rough time again, at the beginning of October, round Champieu and De Roye.
Since then, trench warfare had been inaugurated: they were settling down for the winter. There was not a word of complaint, simply the tranquil and delightful keenness he had always shown. The morale of the men was intact. And they had had so few casualties during the last five weeks. They were well fed. The only drawback was the lack of heating arrangements!
I replied to him at length, and sent a real letter, too, to each man who had signed the collective post-card which I have already mentioned.
I asked my sister-in-law to go and call on Guillaumin's sister in the little flat she had in the Gobelins. They talked for a whole hour about him and me, like firm friends; and Madeleine managed to procure some piano lessons for the other—a real feat!
The postal arrangements had improved considerably. Neither Jeannine nor I lost any time. Directly a letter arrived—quick!—the answer was written. Our eagerness was more intense than ever.
The German offensive in the North had not come to an end. The fighting round Ypres had caused us a recurrence of anguish. My father had another attack one evening when we once more thought—from reticences in the communiqué—that our line had been forced and penetrated, and that the road to Calais was open.