A Piece of Paris

Cher Elias, It’s been a bitter time up here in the Alps, guarding this cursed lumbermill like some forgotten dogs. Ever since that damned battle at Kulm - well, you’d know how the higher-ups love to punish us - I thought we’d never see a scrap of good fortune again. The wind howls worse than a widow’s cry, and the cold sinks into your bones like a blade. But yesterday, the fates tossed us a morsel of luck. You won’t believe it - Jean-Félix, that sharp-eyed bastard, spotted a woman among the mill workers. Swears he knew her from Paris, one of those painted girls who’d linger near the taverns by the Seine. A whore, he said, and the lads didn’t need much convincing. We nabbed her quick as you please - dragged her up the ridge to the Captain’s fort. She’s been locked in the storage room since, and we’ve been taking turns warming ourselves with her. It’s a rough kind of joy, but after months of snow and disgrace, it’s something. Tell the boys back in Marseilles not to fret for me too much. The Alps may be hell, but we’ve carved out a little piece of Paris here, at least for a night or two. Ton ami, Grégoire