The old man doubled over, longing to weep,
longing to perish; but no tears came, nor did life escape from his body
under this affront, as he wished. . . . With the two buckets in his
hands, he found himself dipping up water from the canal, carrying it the
length of the file, giving it to men who, each in his turn, dropped his
gun to gulp the liquid with the avidity of panting beasts.
He was no longer afraid of the shrill shrieks of invisible bodies. His
one great longing was to die. He was strongly convinced that he was
going to die; his sufferings were too great; there was no longer any
place in the world for him.
He had to pass by breaches opened in the wall by the bursting shells.
There was no natural object to arrest the eye looking through these
gaps. Hedges and groves had been swept away or blotted out by the
fire of the artillery. He descried at the foot of the highway near his
castle, several of the attacking columns which had crossed the Marne.
The advancing forces were coming doggedly on, apparently unmoved by the
steady, deadly fire of the Germans. Soon they were rushing forward with
leaps and bounds, by companies, shielding themselves behind bits of
upland in bends of the road, in order to send forth their blasts of
death.
The old man was now fired with a desperate resolution;--since he had to
die, let a French ball kill him! And he advanced very erect with his two
pails among those men shooting, lying down.
Pages:
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471