He had asked for the dangerous post of lookout, slipping as near as
possible to the enemy's lines in order to verify the exactitude of the
artillery discharge, rectifying it by telephone. A German shell had
demolished the house on the roof of which he was concealed, and Laurier,
on crawling out unhurt from the ruins, had readjusted his telephone and
gone tranquilly on, continuing the same work in the shelter of a nearby
grove. His battery, picked out by the enemy's aeroplanes, had received
the concentrated fire of the artillery opposite. In a few minutes all
the force were rolling on the ground--the captain and many soldiers
dead, officers wounded and almost all the gunners. There only remained
as chief, Laurier, the Impassive (as his comrades nicknamed him), and
aided by the few artillerymen still on their feet, he continued
firing under a rain of iron and fire, so as to cover the retreat of a
battalion.
"He has been mentioned twice in dispatches," Marguerite continued
reading. "I do not believe that it will be long before they give him the
cross. He is valiant in every way. Who would have supposed all this a
few weeks ago?" . . .
She did not share the general astonishment. Living with Laurier had
many times shown her the intrepidity of his character, the fearlessness
concealed under that placid exterior. On that account, her instincts had
warned her against rousing her husband's wrath in the first days of
her infidelity.
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