Attila's telegram has been safely delivered to Mlle. Y----, who, this time, will not complain of the remissness of the telegraph company, but perhaps, of her own indiscretion.
TARGET PRACTICE AT SARDINE CANS, BEFORE ST. GEORGES. _March_, 1915.
The Marines have found a way to divert German rifle fire from our loopholes in the trenches.
They have tied a number of empty sardine cans on the ends of sticks and fixed the latter firmly in the parapet, at which the boches shoot continually.
Since then "Fritz" spends his spare time in trying to knock them down; our losses have perceptibly diminished.
MASKED BALL, NIEUPORT-BATHS. _March_, 1915.
Rifle balls whistle to-night through the streets oftener than usual; there is a certain amount of nervousness in the sector.
But these wandering bullets will not thwart the _soirée_ we have planned with some officers of the First Zouaves: a masked ball in the Casino!
We found plenty of odd and strange bits of apparel among the ruined villas; and our masked ball took on an odd appearance with the extraordinary costumes. The _toubib_[4] clipped his flowing mustaches and wore a lady's gown--he was good to look at! Young and fair, as he is, one had to regard him closely not to be deceived. Major Peigné was naturally taken for a "chicken" and there was much rivalry for a few moments, I swear it!
Degove with his old straw hat and battered valise was a scream, while Ricard, in his uniform of a Belgian officer of the First Empire, was absolutely funny----
The strident singing of bullets kept on----
THE BEAUTIFUL PARISIAN PRINCESS, THE GREAT DUNE. _March_, 1915.
We are going to install an electrical machine on the right bank of the river Yser. My men are bringing the heavy box in which it was transported. With its timbers protruding from each end, which makes the carrying less difficult, the gray covering looks more like a sedan chair.
And I think of a pretty princess taking her daily promenade along the edge of the water, which is unusually beautiful----
The weather, alas, is very bad, and the men are tired. The first rays of the spring sun have not come to warm the earth. In fact my _poilus_ have more the air of carrying a funeral urn.
"Hey," I shouted, addressing them, "what would you say if you had a beautiful Parisian Princess in that box?"