Now again, some one is beginning to squeal like a pig. By the way, can it be me? What! it was I who was groaning! Upon my word, it's a little too strong, that! It was I myself who was making all the row, and I did not know it. It's odd to hear oneself screaming. Ah! now it's stopping, their beastly motor. Look, there's the sun! What's that tree over there? I know, it's a Japanese pine. Well, you see, I'm a gardener, old chap. Oh, oh, oh! My back! What will Felicie say to me? Look, there's Felicie coming down to the washing trough. She pretends not to see me.... I will steal behind the elder hedge. Felicie! Felicie! I have a piece of a 77 in my kidneys. I like her best in her blue bodice. What are you putting over my nose, you people? It stinks horribly. I am choking, I tell you. Felicie, Felicie. Put on your blue bodice with the white spots, my little Feli... Oh, but... oh, but...! Oh, the Whitsuntide bells already! God--the bells already... the Whitsun bells... the bells.... XXIV I remember him very well, although he was not long with us. Indeed I think that I shall never forget him, and yet he stayed such a short time.... When he arrived, we told him that an operation was necessary, and he made a movement with his head, as if to say that it was our business, not his. We operated, and as soon as he recovered consciousness, he went off again into a dream which was like a glorious delirium, silent and haughty. His breathing was so impeded by blood that it sounded like groaning; but his eyes were full of a strange serenity. That look was never with us. I had to uncover and dress his wounds several times; and THOSE WOUNDS MUST HAVE SUFFERED. But to the last, he himself seemed aloof from everything, even his own sufferings. XXV "Come in here. You can see him once more." I open the door, and push the big fair artilleryman into the room where his brother has just died. I turn back the sheet and uncover the face of the corpse. The flesh is still warm. The big fellow looks like a peasant. He holds his helmet in both hands, and stares at his brother's face with eyes full of horror and amazement. Then suddenly, he begins to cry out: "Poor Andre! Poor Andre!" This cry of the rough man is unexpected, and grandiose as the voice of ancient tragedians chanting the threnody of a hero. Then he drops his helmet, throws himself on his knees beside the death-bed, takes the dead face between his hands and kisses it gently and slowly with a little sound of the lips, as one kisses a baby's hand. I take him by the arm and lead him away. His sturdy body is shaken by sobs which are like the neighing of a horse; he is blinded by his tears, and knocks against all the furniture. He can do nothing but lament in a broken voice: "Poor Andre! Poor Andre!" XXVI