Rose Misson was a little woman, plump and mild, whose husband, some fifteen years older than herself, and free of all military obligation, had entered the service as chauffeur at the beginning of the war. Misson was somewhat criticised for this step. Therefore Rose, who felt the power of public opinion, was full of admiration of the lot of her friend Odette. Private griefs are nothing in comparison with the special consciousness which public opinion arouses in us. Notwithstanding her real love for him, at the present moment Rose would have preferred her husband dead rather than ill appreciated. Rose's sentiment with regard to her friend might have been thus expressed: "Yes, my dear, your grief is immense; your existence as a wife is shattered. But everybody feels that your lot is beautiful. You will grow greater among us all, will eclipse us, each and every one. From this day you have gained universal veneration; your name is pronounced with reverence; you are changed in our eyes; your presence brings even to us a meaning which we never knew before; the memory of your husband, his glorious name, is something august which is penetrating a circle in which such a quality has never been known." Rose said nothing of all this to her friend, because the language of their circle did not lend itself to such thoughts; perhaps also, even while thinking them, she had no wish to utter them. For the first time since the outbreak of war Odette did not ask for the evening paper. To read the news--the _communiqué_? How indifferent she was to all that! There was nothing more for her to learn. Her husband was dead; for her the war was ended. The war had been him, anxiety for his special fate. Him disappeared, what did the rest matter? And the sense of nothingness which had seized her by the throat that morning touched her again, more glacial than before. Nothing! No longer anything! Yes, the war was an unheard-of misfortune; but the war had captivated one like a drama of unequalled interest. The drama might go on henceforth; she would not go to witness it. She had gone to it only for one actor, who, having played his part, had disappeared. She too would disappear. Odette slept and spoke as in a dream. She fell into delirium; insisted on going with her husband, saying: "_If I had known_, I would not have let you go one step." He seemed to reply to her, alluding to a grave wound which the commandant had received. She would repeat: "The commandant's leg? ... Oh, let them touch you once, you! I am here.... I am here to care for you, my love...." And she awoke with a start. "He is dead, Rose! Ah, Rose, how fortunate you are!" "But my husband is fifty years old, Odette!" "Oh, if my husband had only been sixty!" Simone de Prans and Mme. de Blauve came again in the afternoon. "Your husband, Odette, fell like a hero; there is no more beautiful death." "There is no beautiful death." "Yes, there is!" "It is easy for you to talk."