But, I repeat, to me it was an ill-favored scene, and the fact that it was a warm and peaceful day, with a radiant blue sky above, merely added to the irony.  Although later I visited the War Zone three times and saw towns crowded with soldiers off duty, or as empty as old gray shells, nothing induced in me the same vicious stab of hatred for war as this scene.  There is only one thing more abominable than war and that is the pacificist doctrine of non-resistance when duty and honor call.  Every country, no doubt, has its putrescent spots caused by premature senility, but no country so far has shown itself as wholly crumbling in an age where the world is still young.

V

A few days later I went with Madame Balli and Mr. Holman-Black to the military hospital, Chaptal, devoted to the men whose faces had been mutilated.  The first room was an immense apartment with an open space beyond the beds filled to-day with men who crowded about Madame Balli, as much to get that personal word and smile from her, which the French soldier so pathetically places above all gifts, as to have the first choice of a pipe or knife.

After I had distributed the usual little presents of cigarettes, chocolate, soap, and post-cards among the few still in bed, I sat on the outside of Madame Balli’s mob and talked to one of the infirmieres.  She was a Frenchwoman married to an Irishman who was serving in the British navy, and her sons were in the trenches.  She made a remark to me that I was destined to hear very often: 

“Oh, yes, we work hard, and we are only too glad to do what we can for France; but, my God! what would become of us if we remained idle and let our minds dwell upon our men at the Front?  We should go mad.  As it is, we are so tired at night that we sleep, and the moment we awaken we are on duty again.  I can assure you the harder we have to work the more grateful we are.”

She looked very young and pretty in her infirmiere uniform of white linen with a veil of the same stiff material and the red cross on her breast, and it was odd to hear that sons of hers were in the trenches.

After that nearly all the men in the different wards we visited were in bed, and each room was worse than the last, until it was almost a relief to come to the one where the men had just been operated on and were so bandaged that any features they may have had left were indistinguishable.

For the uncovered faces were horrible.  I was ill all night, not only from the memory of the sickening sights with which I had remained several hours in a certain intimacy—­for I went to assist Madame Balli and took the little gifts to every bedside—­but from rage against the devilish powers that unloosed this horror upon the world.  One of the grim ironies of this war is that the Hohenzollerns and the junkers are so constituted mentally that they never will be haunted with awful visions like those that visited the more plastic conscience of Charles IX after St. Bartholomew; but at least it will be some compensation to picture them rending the air with lamentations over their own downfall and hurling curses at their childish folly.