My aberration fell to pieces. The War! The abominations which were really contained in this term rose up and quelled me. Those villages, blazing like torches. The Meuse rolling by with its purple slime; the woods of Montrolles with their grasses stained with mottled patches violet, the traces of our brothers massacred there. O death, sole enemy of man, sneering at the orgies of the sword! So many beings who moved and loved, struck off the rolls, so many lights put out! De Valpic, the great-hearted, and Henriot and little Frémont; my excellent Bouillon, Prunelle, Icard; Descroix and Playoust, too, all or almost all, without discrimination--a crowd of friends and companions, now grimacing underground. And the anonymous multitude, those foul masses of corpses whose odour had pursued us all through our fighting from end to end. All that, oh! merely a prologue! As if it was enough that a million young men should be sacrificed. To death, to death with their elders, the fellows from thirty to forty. The trench fighting instituted, which would last how long, O God! The sons of the hostile races, face to face in their burrows, spitting murder and hatred at each other, tracing with their blood the baleful line of fire. Frenzy gaining the two fronts little by little, the zones of slaughter being displaced and stretched out, others being made. Where would the conflagration end? A craze for butchery sweeping through the world. Would there be an acre in Europe, to-morrow, which had not seen human remains decaying beneath the beaks of carrion crows, or which did not contain them in its depths, infecting the sources of their poisoned juices?