He continued:
"And the moment was so well chosen! Look at all those chaps, how they are aching to get to work!"
I looked at him instead. Was he dreaming? The men were lying about in a circle after their meal. They certainly seemed resigned to their lot, but as for enthusiasm—not a sign of it. Nor even of that altogether physical excitement of which people speak. Henriot obviously attributed his own keenness to them.
He was most certainly in a state of exaltation. Was he to be envied? Probably. But my familiar spirit of analysis did not desert me. It was useless to pretend that the approach of a battle absolutely changes men's characters, that no one can say beforehand what he will do under certain circumstances. Nonsense. I was quite convinced that I should never be roused to acts of heroism and folly. All the better for that matter. The primordial quality of self-possession was the greatest safeguard for myself and for others. Poor Henriot. What childishness it was to be so set upon hurling himself into the fray. What difference would our presence make? Weren't we far better off resting in the shade screened from the glare of the midday sun?...
Descroix came and started Henriot off again. Frémont called me:
"Halloa! I was looking for you! If you want to send your letters, Dagomert is there on the road."
He was the brigade motor-cyclist.
"I'll go with you," I said.
Dagomert, a tall, pale fellow, with a comical expression, good-humouredly undertook our commission.