I recognized my photograph, taken in “Le Passant,” smelling a rose.
“You see,” said the poor man, his eyes veiled by tears, “you were this child’s idol. These are the lines he wrote about you.”
He then read me, in his quavering voice, with a slight Picardian accent, a very pretty sonnet.
He then unfolded a second paper, on which some verses to Sarah Bernhardt were scrawled. The third paper was a sort of triumphant chant, celebrating all our victories over the enemy.
“The poor fellow still hoped, until he was killed,” said the father, “and yet he has only been dead five weeks. He had three shots in his head. The first shattered his jaw, but he did not fall. He continued firing on the scoundrels like a man possessed. The second took his ear off, and the third struck him in his right eye. He fell then, never to rise again. His comrade told us all this. He was twenty-two years old. And now—it’s all over!”
The unhappy man’s head fell back on the heap of pillows. His two inert hands had let the papers fall, and great tears rolled down his pale cheeks, in the furrows formed by grief. A stifled groan burst from his lips. The girl had fallen on her knees and buried her head in the bedclothes, to deaden the sound of her sobs. Soubise and I were completely upset. Ah, those stifled sobs, those deadened groans seemed to buzz in my ears, and I felt everything giving way under me. I stretched my hands out into space and closed my eyes. Soon there was a distant rumbling noise, which increased and came nearer, then yells of pain, bones knocking against each other, horses’ feet making human brains gush out with a dull, flabby sound; men barbed with iron passed by like a destructive whirlwind, shouting: “Vive the war!” And women on their knees, with outstretched arms, crying out: “War is infamous! In the name of our wombs which bore you, of our breasts which suckled you, in the name of our pain in childbirth, in the name of our anguish over your cradles, let this cease!”
But the savage whirlwind passed by, riding over the women. I stretched my arms out in a supreme effort which woke me suddenly. I was lying in the girl’s bed. Mlle. Soubise, who was near me, was holding my hand. A man whom I did not know, but whom some one called “doctor,” laid me gently down again on the bed. I had some difficulty in collecting my thoughts.
“How long have I been here?” I asked.
“Since last night,” replied the gentle voice of Soubise. “You fainted, and the doctor told us that you had an attack of fever. Oh, I have been very frightened!” I turned my face to the doctor.
“Yes, dear lady,” he said, “you must be very prudent still for the next forty-eight hours, and then you can set out again. But you have had a great many shocks for one with such delicate health. You must be careful.” I took the draught that he was holding out to me, apologized to the owner of the house, who had just come in, and then turned round with my face to the wall. I needed rest so very, very much.