I was afraid to end up with a high-flown tirade. I uttered my closing sentences in a softer voice, as if out of breath. I was still quivering and, with my eyes on the ground, I threw some pebbles from one hand to the other, backwards and forwards.
There was a silence. Laraque broke it with a joke. "An aeroplane!" he announced. And it was a hawk! Other frivolous remarks followed. Suddenly chilled, I asked myself whether my words had missed fire.
I had no more fear about it a moment afterwards, as we went back to billets—slight, striking indications—they all had more life in their movements, something firmer in their tones.
Fortin had murmured: "I think Dreher's right."
We were just about to disperse near our school, when some cavalry turned out of a side street. We saluted the officer at their head, a colonel. He urged his mount towards us:
"Hi, there, you foot-sloggers, read that!"
He held out a paper, which Fortin handed to me without a word.
Why me? I hesitated about unfolding it. The others shouted: "Yes, yes, give it to Dreher, that's it!"
I felt as if I were in a dream. At the first glance I understood. A proclamation signed "Joffre."