The young man was gazing fixedly in front of him, with his eyes afar, as though he did not hear. Fever was mounting to his brain in the intoxication of his fatigue, an extraordinary nervous excitement, the outcome of all the sufferings, all the disgusting experiences he had passed through since the outset of the campaign. The sight of his agonising friend, the consciousness of his own defeat, the idea that he was unarmed, good for nothing, having nothing left him but his skin, the thought that so many heroic efforts had merely resulted in such misery—all filled him with a frantic longing to rebel against Destiny. At last he spoke: 'No, no! it is not finished yet! No, indeed! I must go away. Since he must lie there now for weeks and perhaps for months, I cannot stay. I must go away at once. You will help me, doctor, won't you? You'll find me some means of escaping and getting back to Paris?'
Henriette, who was trembling, caught him in her arms. 'What is that you say? Weak as you are, after suffering so dreadfully? But I mean to keep you—I will not let you go! Haven't you paid your debt to France? Think of me a little—think that I should be all alone, and that now I have only you left me!'
Their tears mingled. They embraced distractedly, with that tender adoring affection which unites twins more closely than others, as though it originated prior even to birth. Far from becoming calmer, however, Maurice grew still more excited. 'I assure you that I must go!' he stammered. 'They are waiting for me. I should die of anguish if I did not go! You cannot imagine how my brain boils at the thought of remaining here in peace and quietness. I tell you that it cannot end like this—that we must avenge ourselves—on whom or what I know not, but, at any rate, obtain vengeance for so many misfortunes, so that we may yet have the courage to live!'
Dr. Dalichamp, who had been watching the scene with keen interest, made Henriette a sign not to answer. Maurice would no doubt be calmer when he had slept; and he slept indeed all through that day and through the following night—in all more than twenty hours—without moving a finger. However, when he awoke the next morning, his resolution to go away came back, unshakeable. His fever had subsided, but he was gloomy, restless, eager to escape from all the tempting inducements to a quiet life that he divined around him. His tearful sister realised that it would be useless to insist. And Dr. Dalichamp, when he came that day, promised to facilitate his flight by means of the papers of an ambulance assistant, who had recently died at Raucourt: Maurice was to don the grey blouse with the red-cross badge, and go off through Belgium to make his way back to Paris, which was still open.
He did not leave the farm all that day, but hid himself there, waiting for the night. He scarcely opened his mouth, and then only to ascertain if he could induce Prosper to go away with him. 'Aren't you tempted to go and see the Prussians again?' he asked.
The ex-Chasseur d'Afrique, who was finishing some bread and cheese, set his fist on the table with his knife upraised.
'Well, for what we saw of them it's hardly worth while,' he answered. 'Since cavalrymen are nowadays good for nothing except to get themselves killed when it's all over, why should I go back? 'Pon my word, no, they disgusted me too much in not giving me any decent work.' There was a pause, and then he resumed, doubtless in order to silence the voice of his soldier's heart: 'Besides, there's too much work to be done here, now. The ploughing is just coming on, later on there'll be the sowing. We must think of the soil, too, eh? It's all very well to fight, but what would become of us if we didn't plough? You will understand very well that I can't turn the work up. Not that old Fouchard's a good master, for I don't expect I shall ever see any of his brass, but the horses are beginning to know and like me, and this morning, 'pon my word, whilst I was up yonder in the old enclosure, I looked down on that cursed Sedan, and felt quite comforted at finding myself with my horses, driving my plough all alone, in the sunshine.'
Dr. Dalichamp arrived in his gig at nightfall. He wished to drive Maurice to the frontier himself. Old Fouchard, delighted to find that, at any rate, one of the men was taking himself off, went to watch on the road, so as to make sure that no patrol was lurking there; whilst Silvine repaired some rents in the old ambulance blouse with the red-cross badge. Before starting, the doctor again examined Jean's leg, and as yet he could not promise to save it. The wounded man was still in a somnolent state, recognising nobody, and not saying a word. And thus it seemed as though Maurice must go off without exchanging a farewell with his comrade. On leaning forward to embrace him, however, he suddenly saw him open his eyes, and move his lips. 'You are going?' asked Jean in a weak voice, adding, as the others expressed their astonishment: 'Oh! I heard you very well, though I couldn't stir. But since you are going, old man, take all the money with you. It's in my trousers' pocket.'
Each of them now had about a couple of hundred francs left of the treasury money, which they had shared together. 'The money!' exclaimed Maurice; 'but you need it more than I do. My legs are all right! With a couple of hundred francs I've ample to take me to Paris and get my skull cracked, which, by the way, won't cost me anything. Well, all the same, till we meet again, old man, and thanks for all your kindness and good counsel, for, if it hadn't been for you, I should certainly be lying at the edge of some field like a dead dog.'