He shoved the Times to him, pointing to the extract from Le Matin: "It is with regret that we record the death of M. Jules Réveillaud, the brilliant young poet and critic--"
Michael stared at the first three lines; something in his mind prevented him from going on to the rest, as if he did not care to read about Réveillaud and know how he died.
"It is with regret that we record the death. It is with regret that we record--with regret--"
Then he read on, slowly and carefully, to the end. It was a long paragraph.
"To think," he said at last, "that this revolting thing should have happened to him."
"His death?"
"No--this. The Matin never mentioned Réveillaud before. None of the big papers, none of the big reviews noticed his existence except to sneer at him. He goes out and gets killed like any little bourgeois, and the swine plaster him all over with their filthy praise. He'd rather they'd spat on him."
He meditated fiercely. "Well--he couldn't help it. He was conscripted."
"You think he wouldn't have gone of his own accord?"
"I'm certain he wouldn't."