Some civilians leave their places and come near us. They whisper,
"They've all got the Croix de Guerre, Adolphe, you
see---"--"Those are real poilus!"
Our comrades overhear, and now they only talk among themselves
abstractedly, with their ears elsewhere, and an unconscious air of
importance appears.
A moment later, the man and woman from whom the remarks proceeded
lean towards us with their elbows on the white marble and question
us: "Life in the trenches, it's very rough, isn't it?"
"Er--yes--well, of course, it isn't always pleasant."
"What splendid physical and moral endurance you have! In the end you
get used to the life, don't you?"
"Why, yes, of course, one gets used to it--one gets used to it all
right."
"All the same, it's a terrible existence--and the suffering!"
murmurs the lady, turning over the leaves of an illustrated paper
which displays gloomy pictures of destruction. "They ought not to
publish these things, Adolphe, about the dirt and the vermin and the
fatigues! Brave as you are, you must be unhappy?"
Volpatte, to whom she speaks, blushes. He is ashamed of the misery
whence he comes, whither he must return. He lowers his head and
lies, perhaps without realizing the extent of his mendacity: "No,
after all, we're not unhappy, it isn't so terrible as all that!"
The lady is of the same opinion. "I know," she says, "there are
compensations! How superb a charge must be, eh? All those masses of
men advancing like they do in a holiday procession, and the trumpets
playing a rousing air in the fields! And the dear little soldiers
that can't be held back and shouting, 'Vive la France!' and even
laughing as they die! Ah! we others, we're not in honor's way like
you are.
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