Fouillade lights his candle, and by the glimmer of
the flame that struggles desperately to take wing and fly away, he
sees Labri. He stoops low, with his light over the miserable
dog--perhaps it will die first. Labri is sleeping, hut feebly, for
he opens an eye at once, and his tail moves.
The Southerner strokes him, and says to him in a low voice, "It
can't be helped, it--" He will not say more to sadden him, but the
dog signifies appreciation by jerking his head before closing his
eyes again. Fouillade rises stiffly, by reason of his rusty joints,
and makes for his couch. For only one thing more he is now
hoping--to sleep, that the dismal day may die, that wasted day, like
so many others that there will be to endure stoically and to
overcome, before the last day arrives of the war or of his life.
______
[note 1:] French soldiers have extensively developed a system of
corresponding with French women whom they do not know from Eve and
whose acquaintance they usually make through newspaper
advertisements. As typical of the latter I copy the following:
"Officier artilleur, 30 ans, desire correspondance
discrete avec jeune marraine, femme du monde. Ecrire," etc.
The "lonely soldier" movement in this country is similar.--Tr.
12
The Doorway
"IT's foggy. Would you like to go?"
It is Poterloo who asks, as he turns towards me and shows eyes so
blue that they make his fine, fair head seem transparent.
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