Yes, he would work for peace, so that boys now young needn’t live in holes like this until they were gassed to death or blown to bits, or buried alive. He would work for Peace, as far as he could understand the chaos of life, as far as he could write words of warning, and conciliation, and commonsense, and truth anyhow.
The candle guttered out. He struck a match, picked up the envelope in Joyce’s handwriting, and groped his way up, and out.
The young farmer was waiting for him, and stared at him a moment, with a queer smile in his eyes.
“A droll life in those days. With good moments, and many sad, eh? Sacred Name! I laugh sometimes when I think of the blood, the death, the lice, the mud, the ordure of it all.”
“Would you go through it again?”
The man shrugged his shoulders.
“To save France one would go through it again. Not willingly. But what else? When the Germans attack again, France will fight again.”
“You think they will attack again?”
“Naturally. They will want revenge. When they have renewed their strength, they will come back. It is human nature, monsieur.”
“Can France stand another war?”