"I quite understand," said the officer, "but when you remember that your duty is that of heroism without thought of revenge—just pure heroism, that of apostles who are made of the stuff martyrs are made of...."
He who had protested, and who happened to be standing next to me, was a dear old friend of mine, one of those valiant souls who fear nothing and nobody. He was a fine, soldierly priest.
He was among the number of those who were off to the front, and his face had lit up when he heard his name called.
"Thank Heaven! I was so afraid of being left behind."
To be left behind was a kind of disgrace we felt ... and we old territorials who were to be sent to the hospitals in the west, felt it badly.
The Abbé Duroy was already living it all in spirit. His eyes saw the near future and his heart beat with joy at the thought of his great work. He was going down to the terrible "là-bas," to anguish unspeakable and to death, and in his person, I thought I saw all the priests of France going towards the frontiers, invested with the divine mission of opening the gates to eternal life to those who were quitting this poor mortal life.
When we had separated, in order to pack our traps, Duroy took me apart.
"You are jealous," he said.
"Why not?"
"I understand. After all this new life is part of our very being. Do you think though that it was necessary to be mobilised in order to do what we are doing? For twenty years, always, we have been patriots ... soldiers who blessed and upheld."