Her last one arrived in terrible shape. She remained at his side night and day. Two times he was operated on. At times he was better, at times worse. During his first moment of consciousness, he asked that his wife be summoned---- What difficulty she had in obtaining a complete address and formulating a telegram according to his wishes! Then he murmured: "She will not arrive too late?" The nurse had written: "Your husband is gravely wounded; come quick, but hope for the best." What a painful journey she would have to endure! During these days she learned a little more of the life of this man. Every minute she went to see if the wife had not come. She returned close to him. "Be assured, _mon brave_, you will get better. She will come. One travels with difficulty these days----" She exaggerated the slowness of travel and he accepted what she told him; but he whispered: "Urge her, madame, to come more quickly!" Then she became impatient--Why did she not come? Some instants after she pitied her: surely she must have had great obstacles--some grim sentinel must have stood in her way--and she might have fallen angry herself thinking of these things. She often interrogated the doctor and told him very softly: "I wish she would come right away!" She knew that the wife of her _poilu_ had three babies to care for--What a catastrophe in this poor laborer's home if he never returned. Soon she knew there was no longer any hope. "At least," she said to the doctor, "you can keep him alive--she will come----" The agony was long, very long and the wife did not come. She sent for her again. What could be the matter? * * * * * On seeing her dear dead, an ineffable sadness engrossed her and big, silent tears fell from her eyes---- An attendant approached her--she turned her head and wiped her eyes---- "Someone there to see your wounded, madame--" said the man who did not know---- Paralyzed, fixed to the floor, she could not move. She saw coming toward her, shrouded in an impressive silence, a woman--one of those women of France, good mother, good wife, good patriot, accustomed from youth to go through a harsh and bitter life as the wife of a laboring man, with serenity---- She went straight to him. The nurse followed her with her glance. She could no longer see her face, but saw the woman bend a great while over her dead. Of what was she thinking? Of the Calvary of her man, of his wound, of his agony, or rather of her own sadness, or the children for whom she would have to struggle---- She turned and, coming toward her: "Is it you, madame, who have cared for him? Permit me to kiss you." It was the nurse who wept---- THE IRREVERENT POILU. _March_, 1917. An élite Division was _au repos_[29] in a pretty little village on the Meuse where the houses are gray and from where one can hear the cannon at Verdun, like a spring thunderstorm.