.. the
Whitsun bells ... the bells. ...
XXIV
I remember him very well, although he was not long with us.
Indeed I think that I shall never forget him, and yet he stayed
such a short time. ...
When he arrived, we told him that an operation was necessary, and
he made a movement with his head, as if to say that it was our
business, not his.
We operated, and as soon as he recovered consciousness, he went
off again into a dream which was like a glorious delirium, silent
and haughty.
His breathing was so impeded by blood that it sounded like
groaning; but his eyes were full of a strange serenity. That look
was never with us.
I had to uncover and dress his wounds several times; and THOSE
WOUNDS MUST HAVE SUFFERED. But to the last, he himself seemed
aloof from everything, even his own sufferings.
XXV
"Come in here. You can see him once more."
I open the door, and push the big fair artilleryman into the room
where his brother has just died.
I turn back the sheet and uncover the face of the corpse. The
flesh is still warm.
The big fellow looks like a peasant. He holds his helmet in both
hands, and stares at his brother's face with eyes full of horror
and amazement. Then suddenly, he begins to cry out:
"Poor Andre! Poor Andre!"
This cry of the rough man is unexpected, and grandiose as the
voice of ancient tragedians chanting the threnody of a hero.
Then he drops his helmet, throws himself on his knees beside the
death-bed, takes the dead face between his hands and kisses it
gently and slowly with a little sound of the lips, as one kisses a
baby's hand.
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