His wife turned towards him.
"Poor old dear! You'd perhaps have killed one of them, but the others would have killed both of us.... Besides, as far as I'm concerned—well—I know I'm too old!... That's what my husband said—afterwards.... That won't lead to any consequences!"
Sunday, September 20
A long march in a stinging hail-storm, first towards the west and then northwards. We are evidently attempting a turning movement against the German right wing.
Monday, September 21
The day broke with the calm brightness of early autumn. We continued our enveloping movement.
Towards midday a heavy French battery in position near the road suddenly began to fire. Our officers went off at a gallop to reconnoitre. We thought we were going into action, but were finally told that we should not be wanted to-day and were sent off to camp in a park near Ribécourt. We ranged up the guns on a lawn flanked by a magnificent wood of beech-trees bordered by rhododendrons.
On one side of us lay an unruffled sheet of water, reddening under the brilliant sunset, and, on the other, among the clumps of trees beneath which lay flower-beds set off by blood-red sage, rose a fine modern château. Under the rich foliage a little rustic bridge spanning the river gave an effect curiously Venetian.
The evening was sultry, but nevertheless we made our bivouac fires under the chestnut-trees flanking the river. In the darkness of the night, which had now fallen, the pond looked like an enormous blot of ink. We were almost blinded by the yellow flare of our fires and could no longer distinguish the river banks, thus risking at every step a fall into the water.