Odette shuddered. The heroism touched her, as it touched every one; but these fine deeds, these multiplied deaths, overshadowed the case of her husband, blotted it out; the death of Lieutenant Jacquelin was fading from the general memory; other deaths were making more of a stir than his; as the war became more and more furious it seemed to relegate its earlier stages to a long-past time, somewhat inferior to the later tragedy. Lieutenant Jacquelin had been killed in the first days of the war, of a war still fought in old-fashioned way. The miseries of the trenches under the autumn rains was another sort of war, one which alone seemed to be true war. The headlong rush of the enemy on the Yser, of which people were better informed than of the earlier invasion at the Marne, arrested and absorbed the public mind. Odette felt this, and though she was determined that no thought of glory should mingle with her grief, the idea of glory and of the gigantic struggle that was going on did penetrate her mind in spite of herself, by reason of the diminution which the prestige of her own hero was suffering. She had never dreamed of finding a cause of pride in what he had done; one single thought had absorbed her: that her Jean, her love, was dead. In her wounded pride she was hurried into saying to herself: "He died nobly, he had a beautiful death, he too!" Yet the universal chorus seemed to reply: "Since him, others have done better." She wrote to her newly widowed friends in words of exaggerated praise, affecting not to speak at all of her personal sorrow. It was a gratuitous effusion of temper, for the widows did not find her praises at all extravagant, and never observed Odette's reserve as to her own case. She decided not to leave the house, that she might see nothing, hear nothing, learn nothing. For a while she even thought of notifying the post-office not to forward her correspondence; but she was always hoping that the Minister would send her a permit to visit Jean's grave. Jealously she shut herself up with the memory of her husband. Everything irritated her; everything was odious to her; everything seemed to conspire to raise between her and the beloved memory a barrier of bleeding corpses, a screen upon which were portrayed horrors invented by a satanic imagination, together with sentences of exalted morality unknown to her and whose new radiance blinded her. Stamping her foot, tearing the handkerchief with which she was stanching her tears, she declared to herself that she would henceforth live only for Jean and by him. She kissed the photographs that she had brought with her. She stretched herself upon a lounge, engulfing herself in the torturing memory of him. For one day, several days, a week, perhaps longer, she would be able to live upon only the thought of him. She would open neither letters nor despatches that might come; if she was late with her condolences, her congratulations, what did it matter?