“Yes, old fellow, you are sensitive.  What the deuce would you have done on a campaign where you were obliged to shoot, to strike down with a sabre and to kill?  And then, too, you have never fought except against the Arabs, and that is quite another thing.”

He smiled, a little sadly.  His handsome mouth, with its blond mustache, was almost like that of a youth.  His blue eyes were dreamy for an instant, then little by little he began to confide to me his thought, his recollections and all that was mystic and poetic in his soldier’s heart.

“You know we are soldiers in my family.  We have a marshal of France and two officers who died on the field of honor.  I have perhaps obeyed a law of heredity.  I believe rather that my imagination has carried me away.  I saw war through my reveries of epic poetry.  In my fancy I dwelt only upon the intoxication of victory, the triumphant flourish of trumpets and women throwing flowers to the victor.  And then I loved the sonorous words of the great captains, the dramatic representations of martial glory.  My father was in the third regiment of zouaves, the one which was hewn in pieces at Reichshofen, in the Niedervald, and which in 1859 at Palestro, made that famous charge against the Austrians and hurled them into the great canal.  It was superb; without them the Italian divisions would have been lost.  Victor Emmanuel marched with the zouaves.  After this affair, while still deeply moved, not by fear but with admiration for this regiment of demons and heroes, he embraced their old colonel and declared that he would be proud, were he not a king, to join the regiment.  Then the zouaves acclaimed him corporal of the Third.  And for a long time on the anniversary festival of St. Palestro, when the roll was called, they shouted ’Corporal of the first squad, in the first company of the first battalion, Victor Emmanuel,’ and a rough old sergeant solemnly responded:  ‘Sent as long into Italy.’

“That is the way my father talked to us, and by these recitals, a soldier was made of a dreamy child.  But later, what a disillusion!  Where is the poetry of battle?  I have never made any campaign except in Africa, but that has been enough for me.  And I believe the army surgeon is right, who said to me one day:  ’If instantaneous photographs could be taken after a battle, and millions of copies made and scattered through the world, there would be no more war.  The people would refuse to take part in it.’

“Africa, yes, I have suffered there.  On one occasion I was sent to the south, six hundred kilometres from Oran, beyond the oasis of Fignig, to destroy a tribe of rebels....  On this expedition we had a pretty serious affair with a military chief of the great desert, called Bon-Arredji.  We killed nearly all of the tribe, and seized nearly fifteen hundred sheep; in short, it was a complete success.  We also captured the wives and children of the chief.  A dreadful thing happened at that time, under my very