He had himself been hit in
the stomach by the same shell. He had lain forty-two hours on the field
before he was picked up by the ambulance corps. . . .
And with the mania of the University man, whose hobby is to see
everything reasoned out and logically explained, he added in that
supreme moment, with the tenacity of those who die talking:
"Sad war, sir. . . . Many premises are lacking in order to decide who is
the culpable party. . . . When the war is ended they will have to . . .
will have to . . ." And he closed his eyes overcome by the effort.
Desnoyers left the dead man, thinking to himself. Poor fellow! He was
placing the hour of justice at the termination of the war, and meanwhile
hundreds like him were dying, disappearing with all their scruples of
ponderous and disciplined reasoning.
That night there was no sleep on the place. The walls of the lodge
were creaking, the glass crashing and breaking, the two women in the
adjoining room crying out nervously. The noise of the German fire was
beginning to mingle with that of other explosives close at hand. He
surmised that this was the smashing of the French projectiles which were
coming in search of the enemy's artillery above the Marne.
For a few minutes his hopes revived as the possibility of victory
flashed into his mind, but he was so depressed by his forlorn situation
that such a hope evaporated as quickly as it had come.
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