--"His
head was bored through from one temple to the other. You could have
passed a thread through."
"Those beggars were an hour before they lifted their fire and
stopped peppering us." Nearer to me some one gabbles at the end of
his story, "When I'm sleeping I dream that I'm killing him over
again!"
Other memories are called up and buzz about among the buried
wounded; it is like the purring of countless gear-wheels in a
machine that turns and turns. And I hear afar him who repeats from
his seat, "What's the use of worrying?" in all possible tones,
commanding a pitiful, sometimes like a prophet and anon like one
shipwrecked; he metrifies with his cry the chorus of choking and
plaintive voices that try so terribly to extol their suffering.
Some one comes forward, blindly feeling the wall with his stick, and
reaches me. It is Farfadet! I call him, and he turns nearly towards
me to tell me that one eye is gone, and the other is bandaged as
well. I give him my place, take him by the shoulders and make him
sit down. He submits, and seated at the base of the wall waits
patiently, with the resignation of his clerkly calling, as if in a
waiting-room.
I come to anchor a little farther away, in an empty space where two
prostrate men are talking to each other in low voices; they are so
near to me that I hear them without listening. They are two soldiers
of the Foreign Legion; their helmets and greatcoats are dark yellow.
Pages:
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365