I don’t belong to a nation debased by defeat. The French Army guards its rights and prerogatives. Since my soul can never be imprisoned, my thoughts are with those who fight for the good cause, my body alone is captive. And yet, not completely so, since it will never consent to do what my conscience does not approve of.” So from deduction to deduction he almost persuaded himself that he was free. He was exceedingly proud of being a Frenchman, and, what is more, a French soldier. From this time on, in spite of his wound, he forced himself to walk without limping, holding his head erect. And thus he marched with a noble, almost arrogant air, straight on, without anything being able to stop him, disdainful of the German uniform and its chiefs, for he had sworn to himself never to salute the officers of a nation at war with his country, and one that had permitted such crimes in Belgium. Orders, however, were strict on this matter, and the heads of the barracks did not fail every day to inflict punishments in the pillory, which punishment certain of our soldiers had incurred for not having saluted a German officer. The punishments imposed for this neglect were announced in huge printed letters in four languages, and revealed to the prisoners the rigours of the German military law. But our sergeant paid no attention to that. He kept his marks of respect for the French doctors, the only officers sometimes seen in the camp. But one day it happened that he was walking painfully and slowly on the light sand, into which one sank ankle-deep. He was speaking of one thing and another, with a comrade of his regiment, whom he had had the good luck to find. They recalled the happy times they had spent together in the barracks--for, thanks to a happy forgetfulness, the memory has not kept account of the bad times. They talked of their captain, a brave fellow, who had died courageously, perhaps a little rashly, but nevertheless as a true-hearted man should do. They spoke of their lieutenants, of the different ranks of the company; nobody was overlooked. In imagination they saw gay French uniforms with their golden stripes, before which one stood proudly erect at “attention.” The sergeant confided to his companion the firm resolution he had made never to salute a German officer. For example, as soon as he saw the General, that old savage who detested the French, he turned about and showed him his back. “Till now you have been able to escape,” his friend said, “but take care, one day you will get into trouble.” “It is all the same to me,” replied the other, “and then [Illustration: _Page 44._] I shall tell him that I had taken him for a French artilleryman, because of his dark blue trousers with red stripes. He will be flattered; don’t you think so?”