We visited it. The four men were about to bury the German who had just been killed as deeply as they could.
Vignerte quickly stepped down among them and leaning over the grave searched in the soil they were throwing back. The corpse appeared.
"—182nd. That's it," he murmured.
He shivered and turned to me: "Let's go back. I'm beginning to feel cold."
* * * * * *
Damestoy and Henriquez were asleep in the dug-out where the three runners had come for them. With the natural deference of the private soldier they had arranged the best spots for us—two holes with plenty of straw and a pile of dark blankets.
The silence was broken only by the gentle breathing of these good fellows and, occasionally, the squeak of a field-mouse hunting for the ears still left in the straw. I could not see Vignerte, who was lying beside me, but I was sure he was not asleep. The open door of the dug-out showed a blue patch of sky with a silvery star hanging like a tear in its depths.
An hour, perhaps, passed thus. Vignerte had not moved. He ought to have been asleep, this mysterious comrade whom the war had sent me. Why was he so moved tonight? What memories had possessed a mind which appeared to be fixed ruthlessly on the thousand details of war as if to avoid straying aimlessly through forbidden worlds?...
And suddenly I heard a deep sigh while a hand clasped mine.
"Vignerte, what on earth's the trouble?"