13, Rue Therese - Elena Mauli Shapiro [16]
two bullet cartridges fused end to end to make a pencil case. The thing is almost the length of my entire hand, painstakingly engraved.
I must say, this particular excursion into Louise Brunet took a bit out of me. If I have to translate another word about exploding bullet wounds and romantic longing, I will never stop throwing up.
As I take my leave, allow me to indulge in a nibble of tortured Gallic courtesy. It manifests itself most vividly in their business correspondence. The French have at their disposal a veritable arsenal of groveling closing salutations. Their ornate obsequiousness borders on the obscene. They are so succulent on the page that the tastiness of our terse American “Sincerely” fades on the tongue by comparison. Thus, allow me to offer you such a salutation presently:
Je vous prie d’accepter, Cher Monsieur, l’expression de mes sentiments les plus distingués,5
Trevor Stratton
PS—Look, I have made myself a calling card on my word processor. Sometimes computers can be of amusement. Witness:
[NB: If I were to jot my true name and location on the back of the card for you, as Louise has done with her calling card—if I were to translate for you, though you can doubtlessly understand the simple vocabulary I employ here, the scrawl would read:
Mister Trevor Neville Stratton
No Where (help me!)
I will sleep now.]
[NB: Here is a scan of the outside of the envelope. Look at how careful and slow is the work of his nib. Look at the curlicues he has so patiently drawn under the girl’s name, and how straight his underlines, as if done with a ruler. On this envelope, the date of the letter inside has been quickly scrawled in pencil, presumably by the owner of the record—perhaps she liked to keep things in order—in which case, who has scrambled everything?]
*
[NB: I have looked on a map for this town Louise lived in, named Malakoff, which is a slightly unusual name for a French place. It is not far from Paris, off the river Seine. The ink on all this correspondence is a warm brown, but I suspect it was initially black and has faded. In places, you can still see where Camille’s nib fades off a little and he has to dip it again. The paper is thick and good; it has stood the test of time.]
At the Army, on 31-10-15
My Little6 Louisette
Thank you for your sweet little package: it gave me great pleasure. I hasten to write you to let you know how I’m getting on, and to thank you. The news is still good apart from some aches I have in my legs; this pain is a recurrence from last winter and must mean that the new winter is coming in. I have received a letter from your little Father two nights ago, and I replied right away […].7 I will tell you that your package’s arrival was a surprise for me. I was lying down and dozing off when I heard someone call Sergeant Victor, so I was awakened with a start and I thought that it was my sister’s package which I expected, but look at that! It didn’t look like the thing I expected: it turned out to be you, Dear Louisette, who didn’t forget me—except you had forgotten the exact address, and I was lucky to receive it. I am including with this letter the address that you put down: you will laugh when you see it. As I could not have a ring made for you since I am no longer in the trenches,8 I will send you tomorrow a little package containing 1 penholder made with 2 fused German cartridges, and engraved. One side is for the pencil, and the other for the nib. I hope, My Louisette, that you will keep it as a souvenir. Not much to tell you other than good health and no bad blood. Say hello to our Aunt for me.
I embrace you well and hard
from afar
Your cousin who thinks of you
and who loves you
Camille
[NB: My translation is difficult. I do not know if I am staying true to the original; it is difficult to render his muddled voice while remaining intelligible. Likely, when I turn the record in to Preservation, the letters will be looked at and catalogued by more qualified scholars than myself—more adept at translation and history. I