Go, then, my son, with the
blessing of your mother and your father, and with that most
mighty one of your country and of heaven.
You tell me to accept my lot courageously. Alas, sometimes
it fails me. However, I shall try to be resigned and I hope
to see you again in spite of everything. If that should not
happen, say to yourself, my dear boy, when you close your
eyes, that you have all the love and all the sweetest kisses
of your mother, who would like to fly to you.
The sisters are worthy of their mothers. Here is a letter written by
two young girls who live in Lorraine, near Nancy. Plutarch never wrote
anything more beautiful:
MOYEN, 4 SEPTEMBER, 1914.
MY DEAR EDOUARD:
I have heard that Charles and Lucien died on the
twenty-eighth of August. Eugene is badly wounded. As for
Louis and Jean, they are dead also.
Rose has gone away.
Mother weeps, but she says that you are brave and wishes
that you may avenge them.
I hope that your officers will not refuse you that. Jean won
the Legion of Honor; follow in his footsteps.
They have taken everything from us. Of the eleven who went
to war, eight are dead.
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