The post-sergeant arrives drenched, his package of letters and
newspapers carefully wrapped. He seems ill at ease as if he finds
himself in a palace.
"Ménard, give your friend a quart of _pinard_."
The paquet of letters for Captain Gunther is always very large. Many of
them commence like this:
"I thank you from the bottom of my heart for having given us details of
the death of our boy. We are proud of him."
Then there are others cheerful enough, others very sad.
I found a short while ago some of the last wild flowers, while
returning from the front line. I have slipped them into my letters that
are about to go. Oh! you who will receive these flowers will never know
what one can suffer here!
THE FILTH, EPARGES.
_November_, 1915.