I felt my heart swell and my eyes fill again at the memory of it! I still mourned for her to-day, for her, for her! So I was not quite lacking in all humane feeling. And it was not my fault if the present stroke of destiny failed to move me at all deeply. I felt softened, however. The dear shade exhaled some tender property. I had been my mother's confidant as a child. It was to me that she liked to unbosom herself, morning and evening, as she bent her harmonious face over my face. She used to say to me: "We two understand each other, don't we?" Had she not once or twice gently and seriously confided in me the secret of certain fears? Supposing anything were to happen to her, she seemed to fear for the future union of the family. She felt that she was the bond between us, that as long as she was alive, she concentrated our affections. My father, without entirely fathoming her, adored her, and so did my brother, though brought up away from her at school. If she were the first to go.... It was an odd presentiment. So my mother had foreseen this estrangement between beings of the same blood; had grieved about it beforehand. Alas! she could never have believed that the breech could have yawned so large.... If she could have suspected that a day would come when her Michel would hear of the other's death with dry eyes and an untouched heart, what bitterness it would have been to her! The thought weighed on my mind. I got up and walked a few steps. I was limping slightly. Boom! Boom! Boom! Ever since it had been light, the deafening uproar had redoubled. Frémont who was lying on his side gave me a friendly wave. "What are you doing there?" "Writing my diary." He waved a bundle of closely written sheets. "My wife can't grumble! I sent her the same amount yesterday." "Are you telling her that we can hear firing?" "Rather not! I'm giving her a description of our humdrum existence at Orne." "Will you lend me your stylo, when you've finished?" I asked. "Half a minute! I'm just ending it off." He got up. "I recommend you to try my desk; this big stone. Most handy! Got some writing paper?" "Yes, thanks." I settled down. The idea of writing had been put into my head by the sight of Frémont. By doing so it seemed to me that I might atone for or lessen my lack of.... I sent my condolences first of all to my father, to whom Victor was everything; his sole object in existence. Fragments of a recent conversation floated across my mind. In what a voice he had said: "They will nearly all stay there!" The old Spartan! But had he not counted too much on his strength of mind.... And yet, no. I was certain of his unshakable constancy. I foresaw that in case of victory, the old man would not utter a complaint, but would congratulate himself on having contributed to it by his loss.