He is quite affected by these things, and with his eyes fixed on the lower edges of the pictures he deciphers the signatures. In the room which follows this shining exhibition of autographs there is a crush. On trestles disposed around the wall trophies are arranged--peaked helmets, knapsacks covered with tawny hair, ruins of shells. The complete uniform of a German infantryman has been built up with items from different sources, some of them stained. In this room there was a group of convalescents from the overflow hospital of Viviers. These soldiers looked, and hardly spoke. Several shrugged their shoulders. But one of them growled in front of the German phantom, "Ah the swine!" With a view to propaganda, they have framed a letter from a woman found in a slain enemy's pocket. A translation is posted up as well, and they have underlined the passage in which the woman says, "When is this cursed war going to end?" and in which she laments the increasing cost of little Johann's keep. At the foot of the page, the woman has depicted, in a sentimental diagram, the increasing love that she feels for her man. How simple and obvious the evidence is! No reasonable person can dispute that the being whose private life is here thrown to the winds and who poured out his sweat and his blood in one of these rags was not responsible for having held a rifle, for having aimed it. In the presence of these ruins I see with monotonous and implacable obstinacy that the attacking multitude is as innocent as the defending multitude. On a little red-covered table by the side of a little tacked label which says, "Cold Steel: May 9," there is a twisted French bayonet--a bayonet, the flesh weapon, which has been twisted! "Oh, it's fine!" says a young girl from the castle. "It isn't Fritz and Jerry, old chap, that bends bayonets!" "No doubt about it, we're the first soldiers in the world," says Rampaille. "We've set a beautiful example to the world," says a sprightly Member of the Upper House to all those present. Excitement grows around that bayonet. The young girl, who is beautiful and expansive, cannot tear herself away from it. At last she touches it with her finger, and shudders. She does not disguise her pleasant emotion:-- "I confess _I'm_ a patriot! I'm more than that--I'm a patriot and a militarist!" All heads around her are nodded in approval. That kind of talk never seems intemperate, for it touches on sacred things. And I, I see--in the night which falls for a moment, amid the tempest of dying men which is subsiding on the ground--I see a monster in the form of a man and in the form of a vulture, who, with the death-rattle in his throat, holds towards that young girl the horrible head that is scalped with a coronet, and says to her: "You do not know me, and you do not know, but you are like me!" The young girl's living laugh, as she goes off with a young officer, recalls me to events.