"Did you come across Lucien, and Bataille's son?"
They hardly mention the war. They talk of the weather, the crops, the price of cattle, but never of battle. I have even found a certain extraordinary dislike for discussion of the subject. Or when they can be persuaded to speak, they laugh and tell of some weird feat.
"There are those who make the shells, those who shoot them, and those who catch them. We're doing the catching just at present. There doesn't seem to be much choice!"
They return, just as they came, without noise, without tears.
"Gigot's son's gone back this morning."
"Is that so? How quickly time flies!"
They take the road with a steady step, loaded down beneath their bundles. But they never turn their heads for a last good-bye.
"Aren't you going to mend my pick-axe, Maxence?" queried an old neighbour.
"Sorry, mother, but I've got to leave."
"Well, then, it'll be for next time."