Then we had to part, for the war goes on, and every day there are fresh wounded.
Leglise left us nearly cured. He left with some comrades, and he was not the least lively of the group.
"I was the most severely wounded man in the train," he wrote to me, not without a certain pride.
Since then, Leglise has written to me often. His letters breathe a contented calm. I receive them among the vicissitudes of the campaign; on the highways, in wards where other wounded men are moaning, in fields scoured by the gallop of the cannonade.
And always something beside me murmurs, mutely:
"You see, you see, he was wrong when he said he would rather die."
I am convinced of it, and this is why I have told your story. You will forgive me, won't you, Leglise, my friend?
THE THIRD SYMPHONY
Every morning the stretcher-bearers brought Vize-Feldwebel Spat down to the dressing ward, and his appearance always introduced a certain chill in the atmosphere.