'Not at all,' I said.
'It's a letter to my husband,' she said, still scrutinizing.
I looked at her, and didn't quite realize. She looked too far into me, my
wits were gone. She glanced round. Then she looked at me shrewdly. She
drew a letter from her pocket, and handed it to me. It was addressed from
France to Lance-Corporal Goyte, at Tible. I took out the letter and began
to read it, as mere words. '_Mon cher Alfred_'--it might have been a bit
of a torn newspaper. So I followed the script: the trite phrases of a
letter from a French-speaking girl to an English soldier. 'I think of you
always, always. Do you think sometimes of me?' And then I vaguely
realized that I was reading a man's private correspondence. And yet, how
could one consider these trivial, facile French phrases private! Nothing
more trite and vulgar in the world, than such a love-letter--no newspaper
more obvious.
Therefore I read with a callous heart the effusions of the Belgian
damsel. But then I gathered my attention. For the letter went on, '_Notre
cher petit bebe_--our dear little baby was born a week ago. Almost I
died, knowing you were far away, and perhaps forgetting the fruit of our
perfect love. But the child comforted me. He has the smiling eyes and
virile air of his English father. I pray to the Mother of Jesus to send
me the dear father of my child, that I may see him with my child in his
arms, and that we may be united in holy family love.
Pages:
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130