the rats and the lice in the dugouts!  And then the fury of the charge, and the everlasting killing, killing, or being killed!  The danger had seemed little or nothing to me when I was there.  But at a distance it was frightful, unendurable.  I knew that I could never stand up to it again.  Besides, already I had done my share—­enough for two or three men.  Why must I go back into that hell?  It was not fair.  Life was too dear to be risking it all the time.  I could not endure it.  France?  France?  Of course I love France.  But my farm, and my life with Josephine and the children mean more to me.  The thing that made me a good soldier is broken inside me.  It is beyond mending.”

His voice sank lower and lower.  Father Courcy looked at him gravely.

“But your farm is a part of France.  You belong to France.  He that saveth his life shall lose it!”

“Yes, yes, I know.  But my farm is such a small part of France.  I am only one man.  What difference does one man make, except to himself?  Moreover, I had done my part, that was certain.  Twenty times, really, my life had been lost.  Why must I throw it away again?  Listen, Father.  There is a village in the Vosges, near the Swiss border, where a relative of mine lives.  If I could get to him he would take me in and give me some other clothes and help me over the frontier into Switzerland.  There I could change my name and find work until the war is over.  That was my plan.  So I set out on my journey, following the less-traveled roads, tramping by night and sleeping by day.  Thus I came to this spring at the same time as you by chance, by pure chance.  Do you see?”

Father Courcy looked very stern and seemed about to speak in anger.  Then he shook his head and said, quietly:  “No, I do not see that at all.  It remains to be seen whether it was by chance.  But tell me more about your sin.  Did you let your wife, Josephine, know what you were going to do?  Did you tell her good-by, parting for Switzerland?”

“Why, no!  I did not dare.  She would never have forgiven me.  So I slipped down to the post-office at Bar-sur-Aube and stole a telegraph blank.  It was ten days before my furlough was out.  I wrote a message to myself calling me back to the colors at once.  I showed it to her.  Then I said good-by.  I wept.  She did not cry one tear.  Her eyes were stars.  She embraced me a dozen times.  She lifted up each of the children to hug me.  Then she cried:  ’Go now, my brave man.  Fight well.  Drive the damned Boches out.  It is for us and for France.  God protect you. Au revoir!’ I went down the road silent.  I felt like a dog.  But I could not help it.”

“And you were a dog,” said the priest, sternly.  “That is what you were, and what you remain unless you can learn to help it.  You lied to your wife.  You forged; you tricked her who trusted you.  You have done the thing which you yourself say she would never forgive.  If she loves you and prays for you now, you have stolen that love and that prayer.  You are a thief.  A true daughter of France could never love a coward to-day.”