"Half a minute! I'm just ending it off."
He got up.
"I recommend you to try my desk; this big stone. Most handy! Got some writing paper?"
"Yes, thanks."
I settled down. The idea of writing had been put into my head by the sight of Frémont. By doing so it seemed to me that I might atone for or lessen my lack of....
I sent my condolences first of all to my father, to whom Victor was everything; his sole object in existence. Fragments of a recent conversation floated across my mind. In what a voice he had said: "They will nearly all stay there!" The old Spartan! But had he not counted too much on his strength of mind.... And yet, no. I was certain of his unshakable constancy. I foresaw that in case of victory, the old man would not utter a complaint, but would congratulate himself on having contributed to it by his loss.
Oh, come along. It had got to be done.... Luckily I need not write much. The noise of the cannonade was a good excuse for brevity. A few sentences would be enough, a suitable expression of my compassion. I signed it. Then I wrote a line to my sister-in-law. That of course was obligatory. Poor little woman! A widow, at twenty-four, with two kids.... The idea of her loneliness and misery saddened me. My pen raced over the paper. I was soon at the end of a sheet.
I fastened up these letters with a sigh of relief at having done my duty. But it suddenly struck me that I could not send them. They would run the risk of getting there before the official intimation. I shuddered at the idea.
Then why should I have been in such a hurry?
Meanwhile I felt about in my pocket, and pulled out a third card. Did I realise at once where my steps were taking me? I think not. I had only written the heading.... And yet! I was smiling; but I was strangely troubled.