yesterday, it is yet only a question of hours. I won't say to you
anything that I have already said, content only that I have from you the
approval of which I was certain.

. . . In the very hard march yesterday only one man fell out, really ill.
France will come out of this bad pass.

I can only repeat to you how well I am prepared for all eventualities,
and that nothing can undo our twenty-seven years of happiness. I am
resolved not to consider myself foredoomed, and I fancy the joy of
returning, but I am ready to go to the end of my strength. If you knew
the shame I should endure to think that I might have done something
more!

In the midst of all this sadness we live through magnificent hours, when
the things that used to be most strange take on an august significance.


_September 4, 6 o'clock_
(_on the way, in the train_).

We have had forty hours of a journey in which the picturesque outdoes
even the extreme discomfort. The great problem is sleep, and the
solution is not easy when there are forty in a cattle-truck.

The train stops every instant, and we encounter the unhappy refugees.
Then the wounded: fine spectacle of patriotism. The English army. The
artillery.

We no longer know anything, having no more papers, and we can't trust