“——Maisonnette——” he murmurs in a faraway breath, then, with an effort, his shaking hand reaches towards his jacket, but without success.
“Sergeant-Major ... there ... there ... to my mother ... in La Ciotat....”
“Yes, mon vieux, yes.”
He is dead. I am trembling but I search for his pocketbook. It is sewed in a handkerchief and in drawing it out it is spotted with blood—his blood. I shall send it to his mother just that way. It is forbidden, but what difference does that make? I have promised.
La Maisonnette! It is still three miles, perhaps more. I’ll never get there! The staff-officer leaves me; he is going to the La Chapitre woods to the left.
We grasp hands once more.
“Thanks.”
Yes, thanks! Together we have done a most difficult thing—we have passed through a barrage.
Now, I go on across that terrible plateau, alone.