We may read their names on the hundreds of little crosses which repeat daily in speechless unison: "There must be something more precious than life, more necessary than life... since we are here." THE DEATH OF MERCIER Mercier is dead, and I saw his corpse weep.... I did not think such a thing possible. The orderly had just washed his face and combed his grey hair. I said: "You are not forty yet, my poor Mercier, and your hair is almost white already." "It is because my life has been a very hard one, and I have had so many sorrows. I have worked so hard... so hard! And I have had so little luck." There are pitiful little wrinkles all over his face; a thousand disappointments have left indelible traces there. And yet his eyes are always smiling; from out his faded features they shine, bright with an artless candour and radiant with hope. "You will cure me, and perhaps I shall be luckier in the future." I say "yes," and I think, "Alas! No, no." But suddenly he calls me. Great dark hollows appear under the smiling eyes. A livid sweat bathes his forehead. "Come, come!" he says. "Something terrible is taking hold of me. Surely I am going to die." We busy ourselves with the poor paralysed body. The face alone labours to translate its sufferings. The hands make the very slightest movement on the sheet. The bullets of the machine-gun have cut off all the rest from the sources of life. We do what we can, but I feel his heart beating more feebly; his lips make immense efforts to beg for one drop, one drop only from the vast cup of air. Gradually he escapes from this hell. I divine that his hand makes a movement as if to detain mine. "Stay by me," he says; "I am afraid." I stay by him. The sweat no longer stands on his brow. The horrible distress passes off. The air flows again into the miserable breast. The gentle eyes have not ceased to smile. "You will save me after all," he says; "I have had too miserable a life to die yet, Monsieur." I press his hand to give him confidence, and I feel that his hard hand is happy in mine. My fingers have groped in his flesh, his blood has flowed over them, and this creates strong ties between two men. Calm seems completely restored. I talk to him of his beautiful native place. He was a baker in a village of Le Cantal. I passed through it once as a traveller in peace time. We recall the scent of the juniper-bushes on the green slopes in summer, and the mineral fountains with wonderful flavours that gush forth among the mountains. "Oh!" he exclaims, "I shall always see you!" "You will see me, Mercier?" He is a very simple fellow; he tries to explain, and merely adds: "In my eyes.... I shall always see you in my eyes." What else does he see? What other thing is suddenly reflected in his eyes? "I think... oh, it is beginning again!" It is true; the spasm is beginning again. It is terrible. In spite of our efforts, it overcomes the victim, and this time we are helpless.