I finished reading my uncle Lazare’s letter.

“I simply wished,” he continued, “to give you news of ourselves, and to beg you to come as soon as possible and make us happy.  And here I am weeping and gossiping like an old child.  Hope, my poor Jean, I pray, and God is good.

“Answer me quickly, and give me, if possible, the date of your return.  Babet and I are counting the weeks.  We trust to see you soon; be hopeful.”

The date of my return!—­I kissed the letter, sobbing, and fancied for a moment that I was kissing Babet and my uncle.  No doubt I should never see them again.  I would die like a dog in the dust, beneath the leaden sun.  And it was on that desolated plain, amidst the death-rattle of the dying, that those whom I loved dearly were saying good-bye.  A buzzing silence filled my ears; I gazed at the pale earth spotted with blood, which extended, deserted, to the grey lines of the horizon.  I repeated:  “I must die.”  Then, I closed my eyes, and thought of Babet and my uncle Lazare.

I know not how long I remained in a sort of painful drowsiness.  My heart suffered as much as my flesh.  Warm tears ran slowly down my cheeks.  Amidst the nightmare that accompanied the fever, I heard a moan similar to the continuous plaintive cry of a child in suffering.  At times, I awoke and stared at the sky in astonishment.

At last I understood that it was M. de Montrevert, lying a few paces off, who was moaning in this manner.  I had thought him dead.  He was stretched out with his face to the ground and his arms extended.  This man had been good to me; I said to myself that I could not allow him to die thus, with his face to the ground, and I began crawling slowly towards him.

Two corpses separated us.  For a moment I thought of passing over the stomachs of these dead men to shorten the distance; for, my shoulder made me suffer frightfully at every movement.  But I did not dare.  I proceeded on my knees, assisting myself with one hand.  When I reached the colonel, I gave a sigh of relief; it seemed to me that I was less alone; we would die together, and this death shared by both of us no longer terrified me.

I wanted him to see the sun, and I turned him over as gently as possible.  When the rays fell upon his face, he breathed hard; he opened his eyes.  Leaning over his body, I tried to smile at him.  He closed his eyelids again; I understood by his trembling lips that he was conscious of his sufferings.

“It’s you, Gourdon,” he said to me at last, in a feeble voice; “is the battle won?”

“I think so, colonel,” I answered him.

There was a moment of silence.  Then, opening his eyes and looking at me, he inquired—­

“Where are you wounded?”

“In the shoulder—­and you, colonel?”

“My elbow must be smashed.  I remember; it was the same bullet that arranged us both like this, my boy.”

He made an effort to sit up.