I can’t help thinking what some of them are going to find out there in the track of the battle.  But it is a part of the strange result of war, borne in on me by my own frame of mind, that the very fact that they are going back to their own hearths seems to reconcile them to anything.

Of course these first people to return are mostly the poorer class, who did not go far.  Their speedy return is a proof of the morale of the country, because they would surely not have been allowed to come back by the military authorities if the general conviction was not that the German advance had been definitely checked.  Isn’t it wonderful?  I can’t get over it.

Even before they began to return, the engineers were at work repairing the bridges as far as Chalons, and the day I wrote to you last week, when Amelie went down the hill to mail your letter, she brought back the news that the English engineers were sitting astride the telegraph poles, pipes in mouth, putting up the wires they cut down a fortnight ago.  The next day our post-office opened, and then I got newspapers.  I can tell you I devoured them.  I read Joffre’s order of the day.  What puzzled me was that it was dated on the morning of September 6, yet we, with our own eyes, saw the battle begin at noon on the 5th,—­a battle which only stopped at nine that night, to begin again at four the next morning.  But I suppose history will sometime explain that.

Brief as the news was in the papers, it was exciting to know that the battle we had seen and heard was really a decisive fight, and that it was considered won by the English and French—­in a rainstorm—­as long ago as the 10th, and that the fighting to the east of us had been far more terrible than here.

I suppose long before this our myriads of “special telegraph” men have sent you over details and anecdotes such as we shall never see.  We get a meagre “communique official” and have to be content with that.  It is now and then hard for me, who have been accustomed to something different.

None of our shops is open yet.  Indeed almost no one has returned to Couilly; and Meaux, they say, is still deserted.  Yet I cannot honestly say that I have suffered for anything.  I have an abundance of fruit.  We have plenty of vegetables in Pere’s garden.  We have milk and eggs.  Rabbits and chickens run about in the roads simply asking to be potted.  There is no petrol, but I, luckily, had a stock of candles, and I love candlelight—­it suits my house better than lamps.  It is over a fortnight since we had sugar or butter or coffee.  I have tea.  I never would have supposed that I could have got along so well and not felt deprived.  I suppose we always have too much—­I’ve had the proof.  Perhaps had there been anyone with me I should have felt it more.  Being alone I did not give it a thought.

Sunday afternoon, the weather being still fine and the distant booming of the cannon making reading or writing impossible—­I am not yet habituated to it—­I went for a walk.  I took the road down the hill in the direction of the Marne.  It is a pretty walk—­not a house all the way.