He shook his head. I insisted. I pleaded the cause of reason. He had been courageous, more than courageous, heroic. That was enough. He would only aggravate the harm, by going on! And what use could he be? I pretended to be convinced—the idea was not at all a startling one at that time—that the war was drawing to a close. A few weeks more, one or two more successes, and there would be nothing astonishing in talking about peace.
I displayed real warmth. I felt a growing sympathy and admiration for him, and his superb moral energy. And he was no superhuman hero. How near to us that sign of weakness brought him—that thermometer consulted each hour on the progress of his illness!
My pleading seemed to have shaken his resolution, but his eyes were lowered.
"Dreher, tell me candidly. You're a good soldier—what would you do in my place?"
I a good soldier! The irony of it! Was I fated to wear this halo? I who, I swear, would not have hesitated to make use of the slightest pretext for adjournment! I had to assure De Valpic that I might have acted like he had.... Yes, at the beginning I should have left in a burst of generosity. But, at this point I should realise the folly of persisting in it.
He was silent, and looked serious, his gaze fixed on the ground, his fingers twisting some pieces of straw.
"You must think that I set great store by my skin," he said.
He dreaded, with the susceptibility of a proud heart, of having gone down in my estimation.
"Oh, rot!" I said. "Who doesn't? And I bet it's chiefly on your people's account, your mother's...."