There is no time to lose. Already several shells, advance messengers of the coming storm, begin to fall. I was about to dart across the Place when a “105” fell on the pavements and burst.
A poor little soldier carrying two enormous bags, a great bundle of linen, and some souvenirs in his hands passed just then. He was on his way to the station at Guillaucourt to take the train, for he was going on leave.
Rejoicing in his approaching happiness he walked on without paying the slightest attention to this atmosphere where death was hovering. A shot hit him in the back and passed out the other side. I jumped to aid him. He was bathed in blood. In a gentle, caressing, almost timid voice he said to me:
“Oh, it’s not painful. I am dying.”
And then with his lips, with an expression of kindness and thankfulness which I shall never forget, he murmured, “Yvonne.” ... And his face haloed with blessedness like the religious images of the martyrs, he died.
I stood there in ecstasy, transfixed, before that beauty in death, before that strength of love which lights the final hour.
How many I have seen die in this way! In their last breaths all had the name of some woman, and their eyes lighted at the name.
In the final moment of a life which is going out physical suffering no longer counts. The name of the loved one embodies all the vanishing mirage of the future, the end of a too beautiful dream, the memories of a happy past ... of a happy past, for the bad times are forgotten.
Before the quivering body of this poor little soldier, struck down fiercely just as he was going on leave, full of hope, of plans, of dreams, a song on his lips, I forgot the threatening shells. An artilleryman went by on the run and shouted at me:
“Get out of that. You’ll get done up.” And I fled.