"A Hilltop on the Marne" is a masterpiece, because the woman who wrote it, left by her own intrepidity virtually in the midst of the world's greatest battlefield, was able to record vividly, simply and accurately her impressions of the titanic drama staged around her.
hing except my going quietly upstairs to bed.
When it is all done I feel as I used to in my strenuous working days, when, after midnight, all the rest of the world--my little world--being calmly asleep, I cuddled down in the corner of my couch to read;--the world is mine!
Never in my life--anywhere, under any circumstances--have I been so well taken care of. I have a femme de menage--a sort of cross between a housekeeper and a maid-of-all-work. She is a married woman, the wife of a farmer whose house is three minutes away from mine. My dressing-room window and my dining-room door look across a field of currant bushes to her house. I have only to blow on the dog's whistle and she can hear. Her name is Amelie, and she is a character, a nice one, but not half as much of a character as her husband--her second. She is a Parisian. Her first husband was a jockey, half Breton, half English. He died years ago when she was young: broke his neck in a big race at Auteuil.
She has had a checkered care