For the sake of something to do I emptied my pockets of their miscellaneous contents.
On pulling out the packet of letter cards which I had brought quite by chance, I thought: Hello, why shouldn't I write a letter?
But to whom should it be?
Not to my father. I had nothing to tell him.
As for my brother, I had not even got his complete address. I did not know what company he was in. My brother Victor!... Why should I be thinking of him particularly just now?... Where was he?... Somewhere in the Woevre. Not very far from me, no doubt.
What spirits was he in? War was the dream of their life, their goal, their one passion, to all these soldiers. What a bizarre idea it was. Simply a case of suggestion! What did they hope for from it, after all? For the space of a second I had a strikingly clear vision of him, calm and resolute, with his cap well down over his eyes, issuing his orders.
The idea again occurred to me of writing to someone—whom I knew. But I counted on my fingers; it was only three days; and it would be better to wait until I had something worth writing about.
When I went out again I found myself face to face with Henriot.
"Halloa, how are you getting on, Dreher?" he said.