[9] Mme. Colette is a well-known French author. Her works about birds and animals have gained her an enviable reputation on the Continent.--Tr.
_After his short trip to the Argonne, the author spent the last days of July in the Flanders' Sector, where he remained until the end of September._
My _poilus_ were disagreeably surprised this morning. The proprietress of one of the villas occupied by a certain number of my men arrived at Nieuport this morning accompanied by a Belgian gendarme. General Hély d'Oissel, commanding the Division, had authorized the latter to make a search for some wine she had left in the house.
This is what is extraordinary: it is true the wine was there, but imagine and understand the despair of the _poilus_--they did not suspect the existence of the treasure! Some good _pinard_[10] was placed in a hole under the stairway, into which one descended by means of a trap door, also skillfully camouflaged by a morsel of linoleum.
And to think they had slept several months over this precious _pinard_ without knowing it!
Luckily the good woman's carriage could not enter the city on account of the barricades, and other defense works, so my good-natured _poilus_ profited by it, and aided her in moving. In this manner they saved a few bottles, which probably would have been broken by the jolting of the conveyance.
THE MAN CUT IN TWO, THE TRIANGULAR WOOD. _July_, 1915.
When one returns to the city of Nieuport by automobile it is necessary to go at top speed along there. The road is almost obliterated by shell-holes and the bombs which fall there incessantly. One must "fly" past the Triangular Wood.
This trip is impressive enough, because it is rare that one is not circumvallated by falling shells. It is very exciting!
One day when I was returning to Nieuport, the bombardment was extremely violent. I was sitting alongside the chauffeur. We had regulated our speed with that of a motorcyclist who preceded us by two hundred yards.
At the moment when we were leaving the Triangular Wood and had about reached the outskirts of the city, the motorcyclist was in a strange manner literally yanked from the machine by the force of an explosion and cut in two. He disappeared in a great cloud of smoke and dust. The wind was blowing rather hard and it cleared away quickly. We saw a Territorial on duty and he signaled with his rifle to stop at the side of the man who had been killed. The time and place had been well chosen, but there was nothing to do but obey, so my driver set the brakes.