We are in the depths of despair today for we hear that they are fighting at Meaux—Meaux, which nearly is Paris. If I were a French woman I could not feel more poignantly about it. But we always think that it is not true, as we have no real means of knowing—all is hearsay.

A messenger brought news from Monsieur N., "Uncle Maurice," in the Ardennes. It appears that in August when the German troops went through Belgium on foot, the regiment of Count Otto von M. passed his villa. Count Otto is "Uncle M's" nephew—the son of his sister, who married a "high official of the Imperial Court," of whom I have already spoken. So it happened that the young officer went to call on his esteemed uncle, who frankly shut the door in his face. The Count burst into tears and cried, "Uncle, Uncle, won't you speak to me? It is not my fault. When my brothers and I received orders to come through Belgium, we begged other commissions but to no avail."

Certainly not! who better than the Counts von M. who have hunted from childhood, thro' every lane and secret path, to lead the armies thro' Belgium.

Trains are passing with every known thing therein—first thousands of soldiers, then wagons of provisions, cannon, boats for pontoon bridges mounted on wheels ready for unloading, material for building, trucks of hay, portable houses and in one car were hundreds of tiny wheels sticking up which we discovered belonged to wheelbarrows. It is a droll procession, that never ceases before one's eyes. To offset it, we have taken to playing Patience morning, noon and night, and if this monotony keeps up much longer we shall certainly become imbeciles. From time to time, in the trains going back to Germany one sees French prisoners, easy to tell by their red kÉpis, boxed up in cattle cars, peering out from a narrow slit at the top. From the terrace can be heard the dull thud of distant cannon; the fighting is at Warrem, thirty kilometres from here.