Never did he seem so frail to us. We can
see his pallor afar off, his oppressed and unnatural expression; he
is bowed as be walks, and goes slowly, borne down by endless fatigue
and his immovable notion.
"What's the matter with your face?" he asks me--he has seen me point
out to Paradis the possible entry of the bullet. I pretend not to
understand and then make some kind of evasive reply. All at once I
have a torturing idea--the smell! It is there, and there is no
mistaking it. It reveals a corpse; and perhaps he will guess rightly
It seems to me that he has suddenly smelt the sign--the pathetic,
lamentable appeal of the dead. But he says nothing, continues his
solitary walk, and disappears round the corner.
"Yesterday," says Paradis to me, "be came just here, with his
mess-tin full of rice that he didn't want to eat. Just as if he knew
what he was doing, the fool stops here and talks of pitching the
rest of his food over the bank, just on the spot where--where the
other was. I couldn't stick that, old chap. I grabbed his arm just
as he chucked the rice into the air, and it flopped down here in the
trench. Old man, he turned round on me in a rage and all red in the
face, 'What the hell's up with you now?' he says. I looked as
fat-headed as I could, and mumbled some rot about not doing it on
purpose. He shrugs his shoulders, and looks at me same as if I was
dirt. He goes off, saying to himself, 'Did you see him, the
blockhead?' He's bad-tempered, you know, the poor chap, and I
couldn't complain.
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