VII—HOW GLORIOUS IS THE SPIRIT OF FRANCE
Ah! but the two last men, besides sweat, have broad smears of blood across their faces and running down their necks. "Oh, nothing much the matter with us, Colonel!" they tell me; "we got that as we came along. We started to carry him along the 'guts,' but it shook him too much; so we came on outside in the open." Poor, admirable dreamer! To save their wounded man from jolting they have risked all their lives! Two or three of these huge death beetles which ceaselessly hum past have smashed themselves near them against the stones and have sprinkled them with their fragments; the Germans do not take the trouble to shoot at a single passerby like myself, but a group, and especially a litter, is irresistible for them. Of the two who are streaming with blood, one is, perhaps, not much the worse, but the other has an ear torn off, and hanging only by a shred of skin.
"You must get your wound dressed by the surgeon immediately, my friend," I say to him.
"Yes, Colonel, we are on our way there to the hospital. It suits exactly."
That is the only thing that has occurred to him to say in complaint: "It suits exactly." And he says it with such a fine, quiet smile, while thanking me for taking an interest in him.
I hesitate to go closer to look at their gravely wounded man, who has remained without stirring, for fear I might disturb his last thoughts. I do go close to him, however, very gently, because they are going to carry him away.
Ah! He is a mere lad! A village boy; one can guess that at once by his bronzed cheeks, which have just begun to grow pale. The sun, as he wishes, floods his handsome 20-year-old face, which is at the same time vigorous and candid, and his hand is still held like a guard before his eyes, which are set and seem no longer to perceive anything. They must have given him morphine to keep him from suffering too much. Humble child of our countryside, brief little life, what is he dreaming of, if he is still dreaming? Perhaps of his kerchiefed mamma, who wept happy tears every time she recognized his childish writing on an envelope from the front? Or is he dreaming of the farm garden that held his earliest years?
I see on his breast the handkerchief with which they tried to cover his face; it is of fine linen, embroidered with a Marquis's coronet—the coronet of one of his bearers. He had wanted "to go on seeing things," doubtless in his terror of the great night. But even this sun, which must dazzle him, will soon cease suddenly to be recognizable for him; to begin with, it will be the half-darkness of the hospital, and, immediately afterward, will begin for him the long inexorable night, in which no sun will ever dawn again.