Then I was powerless before the terrible thought which haunted me: “He will never see all this again.”
There is in the memoirs of Saint-Simon a frightful page on the death of Louis XIV. The historian cannot describe any of the gestures of the dying monarch without repeating, with a persistence inspired by hate: “And it was for the last time.”
In the same way I constantly thought, when I saw my friend admiring the beauty of autumn: “It’s for the last time....” But my thoughts, on the contrary, were full of pain and compassion.
After long hours at our outpost on the hill, we used to make up our minds to return when the light of the rockets began to adorn the twilight with pale constellations.
Dauche appeared calm, cheerful, almost happy, as if he were having continual glimpses of hope.
He used to make plans: that was unendurable, and I felt so irritated that I once said:
“How happy you must be to dare to make plans at such a time as this!”
The phrase was quite vague and general; but as soon as it was uttered it appeared to me cruel and malevolent. I was trying to think how to re-say it when Dauche replied:
“As long as your heart beats isn’t that an adventure in itself? And, besides, you must defy the future if you are not to fear it.”
These words, so full of wisdom, perplexed me without affording me any comfort. They only gave rise to another cause for anxiety. Did Dauche have any inkling of his position?