I smiled. "Not married, old chap, or attached in any way. No, seriously!"
How much to the point his guess had been, though!
O Jeannine! Sleeping and waking I had thought of my love. The other week her fair image presided over my revival. It was with my heart dedicated to her that I had put myself into the hands of the surgeons, and when I had opened my eyes again, amid the giddiness and sickness, it was the light of her face that had been the first thing to pierce the veil of my torpor.
I have said that I had telegraphed, that I had received a reply. But since then, what a striking change there had been. On the threshold of a new era, I tremblingly encouraged myself not to mistrust her. I remember the tone in which De Valpic had spoken of his unchanging love, when just on the point of death.
I waited to write to her until I had recovered my strength to a certain extent. A week! How long the time must seem to her. A second letter came from her. She demanded news.... What a piece of news I had to announce to her!
I made up my mind to it, however.
My first sentence revealed everything to her. It was a mutilated man, I told her, who was tracing these lines to her.... I stopped short, and turned over to bury my head in my pillow. Tears rose to my eyes! Then I recovered myself. I so much wanted this letter to appear a normal continuation of the others. When I re-read it, I was struck by the deadly heart-break depicted in it, in spite of myself! I was on the point of tearing the pages to pieces. I stayed for a long time, balancing them in my hands. Then I finally decided to slip them into the envelope; my salvation lay entirely in the pity I should inspire.
Some days passed by in boredom, and overwhelming anxiety, the reason of which I now forbade myself to specify. I tried in vain to distract my thoughts. My father read the papers aloud to me—those around me profited by it. With the monotonous delivery of an officer giving the order of the day, he sometimes stirred us all in pronouncing the word Victory. He had to take off his glasses which were dimmed.
But the Press no longer reflected the same enthusiasm evinced for the "Battle of the Marne." The thankless battle of the Aisne was dragging on, and becoming endless. We began to feel that the enemy would hold out for a long time on this stolen territory. There was heavy fighting going on in the North. Our left and the German right struggling to outstrip each other in their race for the coast—fierce cavalry encounters round Aire and Hazebrouck.... And there were already sinister rumours abroad concerning the probable fate of Anvers.