Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/245

you permit?" Anna took it, without waiting for an answer, opened it, and removed a few folded sheets. Then she glanced inquiringly at her cousin.

"Shall I?"

Gertrude nodded. Taking a chair, Anna made herself comfortable, opened the pages and began to read in a low voice.

"Dearest Gertrude, It's too bad that you haven't yet accustomed yourself to the thought that I am a soldier, that I am no longer the master of my own actions and movements. There is, you must know, such a thing as army discipline, and I am compelled to be its loyal subject twenty-four hours a day. Therefore, my dear wife, it isn't for me to decide at all whether or not I can come home on leave.

"Here I am only a number, a pair of boots, a military uniform, a stomach to be fed, a tiny atom in a great army that might be sent into battle at any moment.

"Meanwhile, my dearest, we do nothing at all. We wait-and die of boredom. The Boche keeps bombarding us, not with bullets but with songs-and in French, too-about the homes we've left behind and the dear ones who're waiting for us. He has become so terribly sentimental-the Boche." Anna coughed, then continued:

"There's one thing I'm constantly asking myself-what is it we are waiting for? I am burning with eagerness to know what the mood is on the home front; what it is that people are thinking and saying; what is the mood of Paris? Is it cracking beneath the strain, or united and defiant?

"There was a rumor here that we were going to launch an attack. You should have seen the spirit among the troops. There must be some sort of magic that the individual dons with his uniform; the moment you put it on, the spirit of the soldier seems to descend on you. At the word 'attack' the