. . . I have sent you a few verses; I don’t know what they are worth, but they reconciled me to life. And then our last billet was really wonderful in its beauty. Water running over pebbles . . . vast, limpid waters at the end of the park. Sleeping ponds, dreaming walks, which none of this brutality has succeeded in defiling. To-day, sun on the snow. The beauty of the snow was deeply moving, though certainly we had some bad days, days on which there was nothing for us but the wretched mud.
It seems that we won’t be coming back to this pretty billet. Evidently they are making ready for something; the regularity of our winter existence has come to an end.
Splendid weather, herald of the spring, and we can make the most of it, because in this place we are allowed to put our noses out of doors.
I write badly to-day. I can only send you my love. This war is long, and I can’t even speak of patience.
My only happiness is that during these five and a half months I have so often been able to tell you that everything was not ugliness. . . .