The automobile came to a stop. Rene climbed out after the soldier in
order to examine the inscriptions on a few of the crosses. Perhaps
these might have belonged to the regiment they were seeking. Chichi
also alighted mechanically with the irresistible desire of aiding her
husband.
Each grave contained several men. The number of bodies within could be
told by the mouldering kepis or rusting helmets hanging on the arms of
the cross; the number of the regiments could still be deciphered
between the rows of ants crawling over the caps. The wreaths with which
affection had adorned some of the sepulchres were blackened and stripped
of their leaves. On some of the crucifixes, the names of the dead were
still clear, but others were beginning to fade out and soon would be
entirely illegible.
"What a horrible death! . . . What glory!" thought Chichi sadly.
Not even the names of the greater part of these vigorous men cut down in
the strength of their youth were going to survive! Nothing would
remain but the memory which would from time to time overwhelm some old
countrywoman driving her cow along the French highway, murmuring between
her sobs. "My little one! . . . I wonder where they buried my little
one!" Or, perhaps, it would live in the heart of the village woman clad
in mourning who did not know how to solve the problem of existence; or
in the minds of the children going to school in black blouses and saying
with ferocious energy--"When I grow up I am going to kill the Boches to
avenge my father's death!"
And Dona Luisa, motionless in her seat, followed with her eyes
Chichi's course among the graves, while returning to her interrupted
prayer--"Lord, for the mothers without sons .
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