"Then what matters the death of my sons if my country is victorious!"

Those wonderful words have been handed down from generation to
generation as a symbol of what ancient Rome was. Those words thousands
of French women have uttered for the last four years, and they still
utter them today. Other voices answer them. They rise from the
trenches, and they say:

"Be without fear, women of France. For you we will fight to
our last gasp, we will shed our last drop of blood. Know
that if for months we have held our heads below the level of
the muddy trench and offered our breasts to death, it is
that you may be freed from the wild beasts that have burst
forth from the German forests. For your sakes our homes are
not in ruins and our towns are not vassals to the enemy. It
is all for you, so that when we shall return you need not
throw your arms around conquered necks. Our country, women
of France, is made up of our homes, our churches, and our
fields, and of your beloved faces. Throughout the tragic
periods of its history, our country has always been
incarnated in your faces, whether they called themselves St.
Geneviève or Jeanne d'Arc. And in our building, to personify
the cities that are dear to us, we have always taken your
bodies, your foreheads, and the folds of your gowns--see, in
Paris, that statue in the Place de la Concorde, in the
shadow of the Tuileries, which for days has worn a crêpe
veil.... Well, today is the same as yesterday. In our
trenches our country appears to us in those visions wherein
are mingled your faces. We shall believe that our country
has been well served only when, on your beloved faces, we