We wander along the pavement, all through the twilight that begins to glow with gold—­for in towns Night adorns herself with jewels.  The sight of this world has revealed a great truth to us at last, nor could we avoid it:  a Difference which becomes evident between human beings, a Difference far deeper than that of nations and with defensive trenches more impregnable; the clean-cut and truly unpardonable division that there is in a country’s inhabitants between those who gain and those who grieve, those who are required to sacrifice all, all, to give their numbers and strength and suffering to the last limit, those upon whom the others walk and advance, smile and succeed.

Some items of mourning attire make blots in the crowd and have their message for us, but the rest is of merriment, not mourning.

“It isn’t one single country, that’s not possible,” suddenly says Volpatte with singular precision, “there are two.  We’re divided into two foreign countries.  The Front, over there, where there are too many unhappy, and the Rear, here, where there are too many happy.”

“How can you help it?  It serves its end—­it’s the background—­but afterwards—­”

“Yes, I know; but all the same, all the same, there are too many of them, and they’re too happy, and they’re always the same ones, and there’s no reason—­”

“What can you do?” says Tirette.

“So much the worse,” adds Blaire, still more simply.

“In eight days from now p’raps we shall have snuffed it!” Volpatte is content to repeat as we go away with lowered heads.

______

[note 1] See p. 117.

23

The Fatigue-Party

Evening is falling upon the trench.  All through the day it has been drawing near, invisible as fate, and now it encroaches on the banks of the long ditches like the lips of a wound infinitely great.

We have talked, eaten, slept, and written in the bottom of the trench since the morning.  Now that evening is here, an eddying springs up in the boundless crevice; it stirs and unifies the torpid disorder of the scattered men.  It is the hour when we arise and work.

Volpatte and Tirette approach each other.  “Another day gone by, another like the rest of ’em,” says Volpatte, looking at the darkening sky.

“You’re off it; our day isn’t finished,” replies Tirette, whose long experience of calamity has taught him that one must not jump to conclusions, where we are, even in regard to the modest future of a commonplace evening that has already begun.

“Allons!  Muster!” We join up with the laggard inattention of custom.  With himself each man brings his rifle, his pouches of cartridges, his water-bottle, and a pouch that contains a lump of bread.  Volpatte is still eating, with protruding and palpitating cheek.  Paradis, with purple nose and chattering teeth, growls.  Fouillade trails his rifle along like a broom.  Marthereau looks at a mournful handkerchief, rumpled and stiff, and puts it back in his pocket.  A cold drizzle is falling, and everybody shivers.