Besides, on reading over again, with attention, your note of our last
conversation,[2] I have nothing to alter. All that I could do would be to
develope a little more my opinions, and to support them by additional
arguments. I feel more and more their truth, and that the progress
of events will confirm them much more than any reasonings of mine can do.
We are annoyed and disturbed, having the house full of workmen. I am
trying to warm it by hot air, and am forced to bore through very old and
very thick walls; but we shall be repaid by being able to live here
during the winter.
I am amusing myself with the letters which our young soldiers in the
East, peasants from this parish, write home to their families, and which
are brought to me. This correspondence should be read in order to
understand the singular character of the French peasant. It is strange to
see the ease with which these men become accustomed to the risks of
military life, to danger and to death, and yet how their hearts cling to
their fields and to the occupations of country life. The horrors of war
are described with simplicity, and almost with enjoyment. But in the
midst of these accounts one finds such phrases as these: "What crop do
you intend to sow in such a field next year?" "How is the mare?" "Has
the cow a fine calf?" &c.
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