Laurier! . . .  Julio looked doubtfully and for a long time at the soldier before he could be convinced.  That blind officer motionless on the bench, that figure of heroic grief, was Laurier! . . .  At first glance, he appeared prematurely old with roughened and bronzed skin so furrowed with lines that they converged like rays around all the openings of his face.  His hair was beginning to whiten on the temples and in the beard which covered his cheeks.  He had lived twenty years in that one month. . . .  At the same time he appeared younger, with a youthfulness that was radiating an inward vigor, with the strength of a soul which has suffered the most violent emotions and, firm and serene in the satisfaction of duty fulfilled, can no longer know fear.

As Desnoyers contemplated him, he felt both admiration and jealousy.  He was ashamed to admit the aversion inspired by the wounded man, so sorely wounded that he was unable to see what was going on around him.  His hatred was a form of cowardice, terrifying in its persistence.  How pensive were Marguerite’s eyes if she took them off her patient for a few seconds! . . .  She had never looked at him in that way.  He knew all the amorous gradations of her glance, but her fixed gaze at this injured man was something entirely different, something that he had never seen before.

He spoke with the fury of a lover who discovers an infidelity.

“And for this thing you have run away without warning, without a word! . . .  You have abandoned me in order to go in search of him. . . .  Tell me, why did you come? . . .  Why did you come?”. . .

“I came because it was my duty.”

Then she spoke like a mother who takes advantage of a parenthesis of surprise in an irascible child’s temper, in order to counsel self-control, and explained how it had all happened.  She had received the news of Laurier’s wounding just as she and her mother were preparing to leave Paris.  She had not hesitated an instant; her duty was to hasten to the aid of this man.  She had been doing a great deal of thinking in the last few weeks; the war had made her ponder much on the values in life.  Her eyes had been getting glimpses of new horizons; our destiny is not mere pleasure and selfish satisfaction; we ought to take our part in pain and sacrifice.

She had wanted to work for her country, to share the general stress, to serve as other women did; and since she was disposed to devote herself to strangers, was it not natural that she should prefer to help this man whom she had so greatly wronged? . . .  There still lived in her memory the moment in which she had seen him approach the station, completely alone among so many who had the consolation of loving arms when departing in search of death.  Her pity had become still more acute on hearing of his misfortune.  A shell had exploded near him, killing all those around him.  Of his many wounds, the only serious one was that on his face.  He had completely lost the sight of one eye; and the doctors were keeping the other bound up hoping to save it.  But she was very doubtful about it; she was almost sure that Laurier would be blind.