woman can be pretty and generous, delicate and courageous,
rich and sympathetic, and that the mothers whose children
are dead excel in lavishing the care of their hands and the
tenderness of their hearts on the wounded children who are
suffering far from their mothers.

The sacred sense of union that reigns among the men is no less firm.
It is only necessary to read the letters written on the eve of their
deaths--in that hour when a man, alone, face to face with himself,
lets his soul speak--by the fighters who gave their heart's blood for
the sacred cause.

They all say the same things.

Here is a letter a Jew wrote, named Robert Hertz, a second lieutenant
of the 330th infantry regiment, who fell on the 13th of April, 1915,
at Marcheville:

MY DEAR: I remember the dreams I had when I was a little
child. With all my soul I wished to be a Frenchman, to be
worthy to be one, and to prove that I was one.... Now the
old, childish dream comes back to me, stronger than it ever
was. I am grateful to the officers who have accepted me for
their subordinate, to the men I have been proud to lead.
They are the children of a chosen people. I am full of
gratitude towards our country which has received me and
heaped favors upon me. Nothing would be too much to give in
payment for that, and for the fact that my little son may
always hold his head high and never know, in the reborn
France, that torment which has poisoned many hours of our