Sunday, the sixth of June, 1903, broke the monotony of the life that

we were leading at the Post of Hassi-Inifel by two events of unequal

importance, the arrival of a letter from Mlle. de C----, and the

latest numbers of the Official Journal of the French Republic.

"I have the Lieutenant's permission?" said Sergeant Chatelain,

beginning to glance through the magazines he had just removed from

their wrappings.

I acquiesced with a nod, already completely absorbed in reading Mlle.

de C----'s letter.

"When this reaches you," was the gist of this charming being's letter,

"mama and I will doubtless have left Paris for the country. If, in

your distant parts, it might be a consolation to imagine me as bored

here as you possibly can be, make the most of it. The Grand Prix is

over. I played the horse you pointed out to me, and naturally, I lost.

Last night we dined with the Martials de la Touche. Elias Chatrian was

there, always amazingly young. I am sending you his last book, which

has made quite a sensation. It seems that the Martials de la Touche

are depicted there without disguise. I will add to it Bourget's last,

and Loti's, and France's, and two or three of the latest music hall

hits. In the political word, they say the law about congregations will

meet with strenuous opposition. Nothing much in the theatres. I have

taken out a summer subscription for l'Illustration. Would you care

for it? In the country no one knows what to do. Always the same lot of

idiots ready for tennis. I shall deserve no credit for writing to you

often. Spare me your reflections concerning young Combemale. I am less

than nothing of a feminist, having too much faith in those who tell me

that I am pretty, in yourself in particular. But indeed, I grow wild

at the idea that if I permitted myself half the familiarities with one

of our lads that you have surely with your Ouled-Nails.... Enough of

that, it is too unpleasant an idea."

I had reached this point in the prose of this advanced young woman

when a scandalized exclamation of the Sergeant made me look up.

"Lieutenant!"

"Yes?"

"They are up to something at the Ministry. See for yourself."

He handed me the Official. I read: "By a decision of the first of May, 1903, Captain de Saint-Avit

(André), unattached, is assigned to the Third Spahis, and appointed

Commandant of the Post of Hassi-Inifel."

Chatelain's displeasure became fairly exuberant.

"Captain de Saint-Avit, Commandant of the Post. A post which has never

had a slur upon it. They must take us for a dumping ground."




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