“All the same, if a Boche shell fell in that crowd, what a mess it would be!”
“Don’t think,” came from several sides at once, “about Boche shells. They fire them. They know we are here. They are afraid—”
The chaplain, assisted by two clerical stretcher bearers, began worship on the improvised altar on the stage.
Soldiers sang the psalms of the liturgy.
I was nervous, and sobs came to my throat. In order not to make a ridiculous spectacle of myself with my tears I went out. I ran to the cantonment, saddled my horse, and we galloped at random through the sunny country on paths covered with flowers. I stopped in the depths of a valley under the poplars and stretched out on the grass. My horse laid down beside me. And while he munched the grass entirely indifferent to me, I said:
“Kiki, old Kiki, if an unexpected shell fell on us now and blotted us out, that would be much less disastrous than if it fell among those who at this hour are praying in that chapel. They are praying for their faraway firesides, their mothers, their wives.
“They are praying for the preservation of the past and for the future. They have the joy of believing, and that belief, that faith, has steeped them in a special life to which they remain attached.
“But we, old horse? If a shell annihilates us, what of it?
“We have never believed anything and we never will.
“I have impressed my brutal scepticism on the beings who are nearest and dearest to me. I have torn down the faith of their cradles ... a faith in the Beyond.