For this reason, the only ones in the enemy’s ranks who awakened his commiseration were the lowly and unlettered dead interred beneath the sod.  They had been peasants, factory hands, business clerks, German gluttons of measureless (intestinal) capacity, who had seen in the war an opportunity for satisfying their appetites, for beating somebody and ordering them about after having passed their lives in their country, obeying and receiving kicks.

The history of their country was nothing more than a series of raids—­like the Indian forays, in order to plunder the property of those who lived in the mild Mediterranean climes.  The Herr Professors had proved to their countrymen that such sacking incursions were indispensable to the highest civilization, and that the German was marching onward with the enthusiasm of a good father sacrificing himself in order to secure bread for his family.

Hundreds of thousands of letters, written by their relatives with tremulous hands, were following the great Germanic horde across the invaded countries.  Desnoyers had overheard the reading of some of these, at nightfall before his ruined castle.  These were some of the messages found in the pockets of the imprisoned or dead:—­“Don’t show any pity for the red pantaloons.  Kill whomever you can, and show no mercy even to the little ones.” . . .  “We would thank you for the shoes, but the girl cannot get them on.  Those French have such ridiculously small feet!” . . .  “Try to get hold of a piano.”. . .  “I would very much like a good watch.” . . .  “Our neighbor, the Captain, has sent his wife a necklace of pearls. . . .  And you send only such insignificant things!”

The virtuous German had been advancing heroically with the double desire of enlarging his country and of making valuable gifts to his offspring.  “Deutschland uber alles!” But their most cherished illusions had fallen into the burial ditch in company with thousands of comrades-at-arms fed on the same dreams.

Desnoyers could imagine the impatience on the other side of the Rhine, the pitiful women who were waiting and waiting.  The lists of the dead had, perhaps, overlooked the missing ones; and the letters kept coming and coming to the German lines, many of them never reaching their destination.  “Why don’t you answer!  Perhaps you are not writing so as to give us a great surprise.  Don’t forget the necklace!  Send us a piano.  A carved china cabinet for the dining room would please us greatly.  The French have so many beautiful things!” . . .

The bare cross rose stark and motionless above the lime-blanched land.  Near it the little flags were fluttering their wings, moving from side to side like a head shaking out a smiling, ironical protest—­No! . . .  No!

The automobile continued on its painful way.  The guide was now pointing to a distant group of graves.  That was undoubtedly the place where the regiment had been fighting.  So the vehicle left the main road, sinking its wheels in the soft earth, having to make wide detours in order to avoid the mounds scattered about so capriciously by the casualties of the combat.