I unlaced them, but perceived with despair that, in spite of energetic efforts, I could not pull them off my feet----
Unnerved and swearing like a madman, using the furniture as a buttress, I painfully succeeded in getting one off--but the other? Impossible!
This damned boot did not seem to understand--I heard a noise in the room above. Decidedly it is M. and Mme. Lévy who are frightened!
The next day at seven o'clock in the morning, my orderly, Lefèvre, entered my room. He opened his mouth very wide on finding his lieutenant in a pretty white bed, a leg swinging over the side with a new boot on it----
MY LIFE BELONGS TO YOU! BAR-LE-DUC. _June_ 8, 1916.
I turned around. It is _he_! I saluted respectfully.
"Yes, general. I am glad for this opportunity alone to tell you how grateful I am for having been appointed by you. You can count on me no matter what circumstance. Ask of me what you will, my life belongs to you, general, I give it to you----"
THE REGIMENT WHICH PASSES, NETTANCOURT. _July_, 1916.
The sun has just come up--I open my eyes. I am not wrong, it is the blowing of bugles that wakens me----
I jump out of bed and fling the large window clear up--my room is flooded with light----
It is a regiment which is passing--it comes straight from Dead Man's Hill. Our _poilus_ are tanned, but their faces are worn----
"My poor _poilus_, your uniforms are covered with dry mud, but you are magnificent----!"
The band plays "Sambre and Meuse" and I am so affected that I throw myself on the bed and sob like a child.
A LITERAL TRANSLATION, CAMP MAILLY. _July_, 1916.
I was assisting at some trench-mortar tests which have lasted several days. The President of the Republic, accompanied by a large suite, honored us by his visit to-day.
The camp presented an extremely unique aspect by reason of the great number of Russian officers and men, which one sees everywhere.
Out of consideration for the visit of M. Poincaré, a Russian Battalion gave an exhibition drill. When the President passed it in review, the Slavic troops became clamorous. They shouted in Russian something which must have meant:
"Long live the President of the French Republic."
From their gestures one of our _poilus_ was explaining the meaning to one of his comrades in back of me.