"Ah!" we all cried together, "it's Cocon!"
When you hear of or see the death of one of those who fought by your
side and lived exactly the same life, you receive a direct blow in
the flesh before even understanding. It is truly as if one heard of
his own destruction. It is only later that one begins to mourn.
We look at the hideous head that is murder's jest, the murdered head
already and cruelly effacing our memories of Cocon. Another comrade
less. We remain there around him, afraid.
"He was--"
We should like to speak a little, but do not know what to say that
would be sufficiently serious or telling or true.
"Come," says Joseph, with an effort, wholly engrossed by his severe
suffering, "I haven't strength enough to be stopping all the time."
We leave poor Cocon, the ex-statistician, with a last look, a look
too short and almost vacant.
"One cannot imagine--" says Volpatte.
No, one cannot imagine. All these disappearances at once surpass the
imagination. There are not enough survivors now. But we have vague
idea of the grandeur of these dead. They have given all; by degrees
they have given all their strength, and finally they have given
themselves, en bloc. They have outpaced life, and their effort has
something of superhuman perfection.
* * * * * *
"Tiens, he's just been wounded, that one, and yet--" A fresh wound
is moistening the neck of a body that is almost a skeleton.
"It's a rat," says Volpatte.
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