One after the other we pass over the wounded boy, careful not to step on him---- * * * * * The attack progresses, but I have the vision of this child continually before my eyes. I replace my revolver in the holster, and with blows of my cane I stop a crowd of prisoners we have just taken, who attempt to flee, throwing down their rifles as they go---- We have attained our last objective. Without losing an instant, we begin to organize it and get ourselves settled. At the end of a few minutes, officers and _poilus_ commence to feel the reaction of what we have just passed through. Everyone talks at once. We comment on the missing ones. There are several versions on the death of the friends we have seen fall---- For example, several had seen the little boche. Many remarked about his youth and his childish face--he yet breathed---- * * * * * Some hours later, I could not resist--I made my way back two miles to see if he still lived---- I found without difficulty the path which will forever remain solemn in my memory. From a distance I saw the trench and the indentation at the foot of which I was sure of finding him---- * * * * * He is dead! He has not changed his position, but his face is waxen. His two arms are extended with fists clenched toward the heaven he has without doubt cursed! * * * * * After having contemplated the dead boy, I retrace my route, with lowered head, to find my companions---- I had not gone fifty steps before I met, face to face, one of my comrades of the attack that morning---- "What are you doing here--you, too?" "I come to help him out----" "He is dead----" "Let's go back." * * * * * It is night. What quiet after that terrible day of battle. Glorious day! We are quartered in the German shelters--use whatever we can find to build a fire---- It continues to rain outside. We have formed a circle and discuss the events which have just passed endlessly. In a corner of the shelter several men, lying full length on the floor, speak in a low voice. They are the colonel's messengers. I hear one who says to the other: "I went back to see him--he was dead. I will reproach myself the rest of my life for not having helped him up this morning when we jumped over him." THE HEROIC POILUS, CHAMPAGNE. _April_ 17, 1917. Nothing withstood the attack of the 8th Zouaves; we reached our objective at the given time. We are elated over our success.[33] The noise of the battle is dying out. The enemy surrenders to us in little groups. I find myself, cane in hand, standing before a dugout, from which crawl a dozen or so Saxons with their captain---- Pointing at our _poilus_, covered with mud and magnificent, he said to me: "What are these men--lions?" "No, they are _poilus of France_!" THE CHIVALROUS POILUS, CHAMPAGNE. _April_, 1917.