_Château ----, France_.
_To_ M. PUNCH.
CHER MONSIEUR,--Shall I write to you of the toil, the fatigues which
my sisters and I must endure at the hands of our country's Allies,
without kindling in your breast that flame of chivalry which is the
common glory of our two races? _C'est incroyable_.
Let us then to my complaint.
We lived for many years, my two sisters and I, in the service of our
dear master, who owned a beautiful château in the North of France.
Our duties were simple--to entertain the guests of M. le Vicomte after
dinner on those evenings upon which he gathered his friends around
him.
For the rest we lived in the ease which his kind generosity knew how
to provide. We loved our own particular boudoir, with its books, its
pictures, its comfortable fauteuils and its soft green cushions.
Oh, Monsieur, it makes me to weep when I think of my beautiful
sisters--the one with her laughing rosy cheeks, the other pale as
ivory, save for one little black spot, which no man surely could
call a blemish.
Those were happy days. Often we kissed, my sisters and I, for very
joy.
Then it came--this terrible War. M. le Vicomte was called away in the
cause of _la belle France_; but we would not desert our home. One day,
we said, it shall be as of old.
And as the months went by it was whispered that the English would make
of our château a house of rest for their officers who were recovering
themselves of their wounds. And we were glad, for we promised
ourselves to entertain our brave Allies. Thus might we too serve _la
patrie_.
They came. _Mon Dieu!_ Is it now a hundred years that we hurry to and
fro in their service? A House of Rest! _Ma foi!_ Morning, noon and
night they come, these countrymen of yours. Never can we rest. Hither
and thither do they drive us. No longer are our cushions soft and
caressing; the cloth upon our table is stained, and see--here is a
hole.
Ah, it is cruel! Our beauty is decayed. The cheeks of my poor sister,
that once were so rosy, have lost their colour and our figures their
rounded grace.
We are loyal, Monsieur, and, though we are no longer pleasing to look
upon, we do not grudge our service. But we beg of you, kind M. Punch,
to procure for us a respite from our labours, that we may recover
something of our former lustre. Thus shall you merit the undying
gratitude and your countrymen regain the devoted services of what
were at one time three of France's fairest billiard-balls.
_Agréez, cher Monsieur, etc., etc._
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[Illustration: _First Actor (in khaki, to second ditto)_. "HULLO, OLD
BOY--WORKING?"
_Second Actor_. "YES, OLD CHAP, AND HAIG HAS BOOKED ME FOR THE AUTUMN
TOO."]
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