that happen!  He thought of all that France had given him, all that France meant to him.  The faces of all those comrades of the Quartier rose before him; and gently, wistfully appealing, the sweet face of little lost Denise.  He packed his paintings finished and unfinished, and went to tell his friend the cure farewell, bending his pagan knees to receive the old man’s blessing.  The cure, too, was part of that which is the spirit of France.

They were enlisting in the Quartier.  Peter was one of very many.  When the preliminaries were passed and he had put on the uniform of a private soldier of the republic, he felt rather a fool.  He wasn’t in the least enthusiastic.  There was a thing to be done, and he meant to help in its accomplishment; but he wasn’t going to shout over it or pretend that he liked doing it.

When he went to tell Mrs. Hemingway good-by, just before his regiment left, she put her arms around him and kissed him.  She was going to stay in Paris, and Emma Campbell would stay in her house.  Emma Campbell had been very silent.  She had acute and very unpleasant recollections of one war.  She didn’t understand what this one was about, but she didn’t like it.  And when she saw Peter in uniform, saying good-by, going away to get himself killed, maybe, she broke into a whimper: 

“Oh, Miss Maria!  Oh, Miss Maria!  Look at we-all chile!  Oh, my Gawd, Miss Maria, we-all ’s chile ’s gwine to de war!”

Peter put his arm around her shoulder.  His face twitched.  Emma said in a low voice:  “I help Miss Maria wean ’im, en he bit me on de knuckles wid ’is fust toofs.  Nevuh had no trouble wid ’im, ’cept to dust ’is britches wunst in a w’ile.  Ah, Lawd!  I sho did love dat chile!  Use to rake chips for de wash-pot fire, en sit roun’ en wait for ole Emma Campbell to fix ’is sweet ’taters for ’im.  Me en Miss Maria’s chile.  En now he soldier en gwine to de war!  Me en ’im far fum home, en he gwine to de war!” She threw her white apron over her head.  Emma hated to have anybody see her cry.

So Peter Champneys went to the war, along with the other artists of France, and was made use of in many curious ways.  Presently he was taken out of his squad, and set at other work where the quick and sure eye, and deft, trained hand, of the painter were needed.

He saw unbelievable, unimaginable things, things so unspeakable that his soul seemed to die within him.  The word glory made him shudder.  There was a duty to do, and he did it to the best of his ability, without noise, without fear.  Wherever he looked around him, other men were doing the same thing.  Every now and then, after some particularly nightmarish experiences, he would be called out—­he himself questioned why—­and kissed on both cheeks, and a medal or so would be pinned upon him.  He accepted it all politiely, apathetically; it was all a part of the game.  And the game itself seemed never-ending.  It went on and on, and on.