Then my thoughts softened.  With closed eyelids I saw Babet and my uncle Lazare.  How long it was since I had kissed them!  I remembered the day of our separation; my uncle weeping because he was poor, and allowing me to leave like that, and Babet, in the evening, had vowed she would wait for me, and that she would never love another.  I had had to quit all, my master at Grenoble, my friends at Dourgues.  A few letters had come from time to time to tell me they always loved me, and that happiness was awaiting me in my well-beloved valley.  And I, I was going to fight, I was going to get killed.

I began dreaming of my return.  I saw my poor old uncle on the threshold of the parsonage extending his trembling arms; and behind him was Babet, quite red, smiling through her tears.  I fell into their arms and kissed them, seeking for expressions—­

Suddenly the beating of drums recalled me to stern reality.  Daybreak had come, the grey plain expanded in the morning mist.  The ground became full of life, indistinct forms appeared on all sides; a sound that became louder and louder filled the air; it was the call of bugles, the galloping of horses, the rumble of artillery, the shouting out of orders.  War came threatening, amidst my dream of tenderness.  I rose with difficulty; it seemed to me that my bones were broken, and that my head was about to split.  I hastily got my men together; for I must tell you that I had won the rank of sergeant.  We soon received orders to bear to the left and occupy a hillock above the plain.

As we were about to move, the sergeant-major came running along and shouting: 

“A letter for Sergeant Gourdon!”

And he handed me a dirty crumpled letter, which had been lying perhaps for a week in the leather bags of the post-office.  I had only just time to recognise the writing of my uncle Lazare.

“Forward, march!” shouted the major.

I had to march.  For a few seconds I held the poor letter in my hand, devouring it with my eyes; it burnt my fingers; I would have given everything in the world to have sat down and wept at ease whilst reading it.  I had to content myself with slipping it under my tunic against my heart.

I have never experienced such agony.  By way of consolation I said to myself what my uncle had so often repeated to me:  I was in the summer of my life, at the moment of the fierce struggle, and it was essential that I should perform my duty bravely, if I would have a peaceful and bountiful autumn.  But these reasons exasperated me the more:  this letter, which had come to speak to me of happiness, burnt my heart, which had revolted against the folly of war.  And I could not even read it!  I was perhaps going to die without knowing what it contained, without perusing my uncle Lazare’s affectionate remarks for the last time.