While we were at lunch a woman stopped before our window a moment in her flight and said to us, "From your window you must be able to see the firing of the cannon. The light can be seen from here." In fact, from the upper story we can distinguish plainly a veritable whirlwind of artillery. It is on the plain of Monthyon that the firing is the most sustained. Mingled with the roar of cannon and the rattle of machine guns we can hear men shouting and trumpets sounding the charge. They tell us it is our brave Zouaves and our Moroccan sharp-shooters who are down there in the valley, while the enemy artillery is on the hills. With the naked eye we can see very plainly brown specks advancing in columns.

Shells are bursting three miles from us as the crow flies. Black and white tufts mount and spread about in the air. Under these tufts fires spring up, and farmhouses, woods, and mills burst into flames.

The fire and noise are hellish!

We have in front of us the magnificent panorama formed by the heights of Monthyon and Penchard, Chauconin, Neufmontiers; in the background, Chambry and Barcy. All these little wooded hill-tops stand out like lace-work against the clear sky. In the lowlands, on the right of the valley, is Meaux, with its cathedral towering over it; below, in the foreground, winds the Marne; between us and the river are the great trees of the Aulnois woods and our own garden.

Can it be possible that in this marvellous setting, in this peaceful countryside and radiant sunshine, men are killing each other? Each of the combatants claims God on his side. And yet, did not His messenger on earth say: "Love one another"? What have the sons of men done with Christ's doctrines of love—charity—peace?

As long as time endures, in order that ideals may live, must the earth be drenched with blood and tears?

What harvest will be garnered from all this mowing down of tender youth, cut off here before our eyes?

Oh, the crushing guilt that weighs on the instigators of such a war, and the terrible responsibility that is on their heads!

Civilization seems nothing but an empty word, that no longer has the slightest meaning. We are not, alas, ripe for universal peace. And yet, how happy nations could be if these mountains of gold that are being melted up for their destruction could be used for their well-being! Shall we ever attain to the ideal of peace? Perhaps, but before that time what suffering will be ours!

For the present, we must drive out the invaders, thrust back this cursed and ambitious people which has long been preparing for war, and reduce it to impotence. Our brave soldiers are setting at the task body and soul.

All political parties have put aside their differences and, for the sake of the common cause, are walking hand in hand.

May victory keep and strengthen this spirit! It would be the first step on the road to happiness.

While the battle rages before us, our prayers go out to the heroes who are suffering and dying so near at hand. Each cannon-shot, as we think of the bloody trail it ploughs in its path, is like a stab in the heart.

And my thoughts are with the wounded as they try to crawl out of reach of bullets, huddling in a furrow, crouching behind a bush. Some of them with their little remaining strength write on the back of an old envelope their last farewells.

The vision of my brother rises before me. He is bleeding, near unto death. He calls for help. Every movement that he makes wrings from him a groan. By a superhuman effort, goaded on by the thought of his children and his longing to see them again, he succeeds in dragging himself to the banks of the Marne, in the hope of finding help. To assuage his fever he tries to dip his hand in the cool water. But his arm refuses to obey. His hand is rigid. No one to aid him. Shattered, weak, he lies there waiting—waiting for the help that never comes.

I am in despair. Surely there are wounded men in agony on the banks of the Marne.

If anyone would go with me, perhaps we could organize some sort of relief work. But how are we to get to the other side of the river? All the fishing boats, even the wash boat, have been sunk by the English. Can we do nothing but stand waiting here—useless—helpless?

My brother's little girls are playing peacefully at our side. Like them, we are calm. Not for a moment are we afraid. Without saying a word to each other, we seem to think the same thoughts, and we remain at our post until evening, with full confidence. But our emotion is very great.

To what merciful providence do we owe our certainty that the enemy will not reach us, and the tranquillity with which we await the end of this tragedy? I confess that I do not understand.

One by one the stars break through the veil of darkness that comes down gently upon us. Now myriads of stars are shining in the heavens.

It is eleven o'clock. Houses are in flames, and forests. Here and there in the distance camp-fires are burning and trench-rockets burst in showers, making the valley seem like a great fiery furnace, an ocean of flame.

How insignificant are our own troubles in the presence of these heaped up ruins, this destruction of men and things!

On the highest tree of the Aulnois woods I have just seen a little light, square in shape, which alternately appears and disappears.