For the first time since the outbreak of war Odette did not ask for the evening paper. To read the news—the communiqué? How indifferent she was to all that! There was nothing more for her to learn. Her husband was dead; for her the war was ended. The war had been him, anxiety for his special fate. Him disappeared, what did the rest matter?
And the sense of nothingness which had seized her by the throat that morning touched her again, more glacial than before. Nothing! No longer anything! Yes, the war was an unheard-of misfortune; but the war had captivated one like a drama of unequalled interest. The drama might go on henceforth; she would not go to witness it. She had gone to it only for one actor, who, having played his part, had disappeared. She too would disappear.
Odette slept and spoke as in a dream. She fell into delirium; insisted on going with her husband, saying: "If I had known, I would not have let you go one step." He seemed to reply to her, alluding to a grave wound which the commandant had received. She would repeat: "The commandant's leg? ... Oh, let them touch you once, you! I am here.... I am here to care for you, my love...." And she awoke with a start.
"He is dead, Rose! Ah, Rose, how fortunate you are!"
"But my husband is fifty years old, Odette!"
"Oh, if my husband had only been sixty!"
Simone de Prans and Mme. de Blauve came again in the afternoon.
"Your husband, Odette, fell like a hero; there is no more beautiful death."
"There is no beautiful death."
"Yes, there is!"