I came out overcome with a kind of annoyance. Really, nobody took the slightest interest in my dead man. I muttered to myself: “Why, why, Lamailleux, did you let yourself die in a place where corpses are not wanted, and at a moment when no one has time to deal with them?” But even as I said that, I felt none the less a kind of link being established between me and this wreckage, and I looked at it as at something which puzzles you, but which belongs to you in spite of everything. “Where shall we put the poor man?” said Bonardent. Then the simplest solution struck me. “Follow me,” I said. Quietly we went back towards the lamp-room. “There’s no room there, Lieutenant.” “Proceed, Corporal.” I got the stretcher carried into the room reserved for my use. “Now, put it there, alongside my mattress, and go to bed.” The men went out, shaking their heads with amazement. I remained alone with Lamailleux and lay down on the sheets. War had already taught me to live and to sleep in the company of the dead, and I was surprised that I had not, from the first, thought of so natural a solution. For a long time, in the light of a candle, I looked at the frightful heap which was my night companion. There was no smell yet. I blew out the candle and could think at leisure. From the stretcher there fell softly every second a drop of something which must have been blood. For a long time I counted the drops, thinking of many things that were as mournful as the epoch I lived in. Loud whistles pierced the blackness, and I had already counted several hundreds of the drops when I fell into a sleep that was like that of my comrade--undisturbed by dreams. THE HORSE-DEALERS They have all been summoned to report at noon, though many of them will not be wanted until evening. There they stand round the entrance--like a dark puddle, one would almost say; others are scattered about in the garden, gloomily walking up and down. It is an afternoon of February. The heavy and anxious sky is surcharged in one limitless stretch. It appears to bear no relation to the little events that happen down here, so melancholy is its mood. The wind is surly. It must know what they are doing far away, but it says nothing; not even the deepest rumble of the cannon is borne along the breeze; we are far away, and must forget.... The wind swirls in between the buildings, sweeps back on itself, enraged like a wild beast caught in a trap. The men pay no attention to the sky, or to the wind, or to the chilling light of winter; they are thinking of themselves. They do not know each other; they have been brought here by a cause which is common to all of them. They are so bewildered and exhausted that they cannot even pretend to be indifferent.