When I came to myself again I was lying on my side in the dust.  I was annihilated by profound stupor.  I gazed before me with my eyes wide open without seeing anything; it seemed to me that I had lost my limbs, and that my brain was empty.  I did not suffer, for life seemed to have departed from my flesh.

The rays of a hot implacable sun fell upon my face like molten lead.  I did not feel it.  Life returned to me little by little; my limbs became lighter, my shoulder alone remained crushed beneath an enormous weight.  Then, with the instinct of a wounded animal, I wanted to sit up.  I uttered a cry of pain, and fell back upon the ground.

But I lived now, I saw, I understood.  The plain spread out naked and deserted, all white in the broad sunlight.  It exhibited its desolation beneath the intense serenity of heaven; heaps of corpses were sleeping in the warmth, and the trees that had been brought down, seemed to be other dead who were dying.  There was not a breath of air.  A frightful silence came from those piles of inanimate bodies; then, at times, there were dismal groans which broke this silence, and conveyed a long tremor to it.  Slender clouds of grey smoke hanging over the low hills on the horizon, was all that broke the bright blue of the sky.  The butchery was continuing on the heights.

I imagined we were conquerors, and I experienced selfish pleasure in thinking I could die in peace on this deserted plain.  Around me the earth was black.  On raising my head I saw the enemy’s battery on which we had charged, a few feet away from me.  The struggle must have been horrible:  the mound was covered with hacked and disfigured bodies; blood had flowed so abundantly that the dust seemed like a large red carpet.  The cannon stretched out their dark muzzles above the corpses.  I shuddered when I observed the silence of those guns.

Then gently, with a multitude of precautions, I succeeded in turning on my stomach.  I rested my head on a large stone all splashed with gore, and drew my uncle Lazare’s letter from my breast.  I placed it before my eyes; but my tears prevented my reading it.

And whilst the sun was roasting me in the back, the acrid smell of blood was choking me.  I could form an idea of the woeful plain around me, and was as if stiffened with the rigidness of the dead.  My poor heart was weeping in the warm and loathsome silence of murder.

Uncle Lazare wrote to me: 

“My Dear Boy,—­I hear war has been declared; but I still hope you will get your discharge before the campaign opens.  Every morning I beseech the Almighty to spare you new dangers; He will grant my prayer; He will, one of these days, let you close my eyes.

“Ah! my poor Jean, I am becoming old, I have great need of your arm.  Since your departure I no more feel your youthfulness beside me, which gave me back my twenty summers.  Do you remember our strolls in the morning along the oak-tree walk?  Now I no longer dare to go beneath those trees; I am alone, I am afraid.  The Durance weeps.  Come quickly and console me, assuage my anxiety——­”