Yesterday I chartered a cab and went to Boulogne, a village on the Seine, close by the wood of the same name.

We drove through a portion of the Bois; it contained more soldiers than trees.

Line and artillerymen were camped everywhere, and every fifty yards a group was engaged in skinning or cutting up a dead horse.

The village of Boulogne had been deserted by almost all the inhabitants.

Across some of the streets leading to the river there were barricades, others were open.