The funereal refrain resounded in me anew: Victor killed! I expected.... Dead, dead, my brother! A procession of regrets was bound to follow! In spite of myself, paltry worries came back to annoy me, my sore foot as usual. I lost my temper. Despicable solicitude! When I had been so hard hit! Revolving these thoughts in my mind, I was suddenly seized with terror, with that terror which always freezes me at the sudden disappearance of any being with whom I have come into contact. But for all this terror I must confess that I was only moderately afflicted, however reluctant I might be to admit it. It went no doubt to prove that I was incapable of moral suffering. It filled me with shame. I longed ardently to overcome it. But in what way? Who could believe that I went as far as to ask myself, "What happens when one loses an only brother; how does one feel?" And then all at once I lost patience. Come along! Come along! Let's be frank. Had I not sworn long ago to avoid all juggling with words. No shammed grief for me! Quite true I had lost my brother! But what was he to me? I remember the impression, corroborated so often, that we had nothing in common. He, the classical type of soldier, a slave to his convictions. I, reared on philosophy, moulded of doubt and detachment. A brother to whom I had never for a moment opened my heart, with whom I had had no intimate converse. How pitifully trite, too, our correspondence had been! He for his part lived engrossed in the wife chosen and schooled to his liking, and in his children, who interested me only as being pretty little creatures. My brother simply by an accident of birth! I obviously could not mourn for him in the same way as for someone I had loved! This reasoning calmed me. But the question still persisted mechanically: "Then whom did I love?" Suddenly the answer, the cruel answer, presented itself: "No one on earth! I was quite alone!" Why was the thought of my heart withered beyond all help, so odious to me to-day? Why, in order to dispel it, was I driven to conjure up the sorrow which years and years ago had made my child's heart bleed? My mother. My sweet mother. Fourteen years had passed in vain, since that terrible day; the wound had never healed. She had been ill no time; a bad attack of influenza, a great deal of fever, threatened pneumonia. I had spent part of the afternoon in her room. She complained of nothing but thirst. I got her what she wanted and reminded her when it was time to take her medicine. She was not very much pulled down. I remember that she had congratulated me on obtaining a good place in Latin prose. Some artless remark on the maid's part had tickled us both.... And that night the hospital nurse who had arrived a few hours before, knocked at my door, panic-stricken.... It was all over. What a thunderbolt it had been.