These two Frenchmen are Salvette and Bernadou, two light-infantry
men, two Provençals from the same village, enlisted in the same
battalion and wounded by the same shell. But Salvette has proved
the hardier of the two; he is able now to get up and to take a few
steps from his bed to the window. Bernadou, on the other hand, has no
desire to recover. Behind the faded curtains of his hospital bed,
he languishes and grows thinner day by day; and when he speaks of
his home, he smiles that sad smile of invalids which contains more
resignation than hope. He seems a little brighter to-day, however,
as he recalls the celebration of Christmas, which in our beautiful
land of Provence is like a bonfire lighted in the heart of winter.
He thinks of the walk home after midnight Mass, of the bedecked
and luminous churches, the dark and crowded village streets, then
the long evening around the table, the three traditional torches,
the _aïoli_, the dish of snails, the pretty ceremony of the _cacho
fio_,--the Yule log, which the grandfather parades through the house
and sprinkles with mulled wine.
"Ah, my poor Salvette, what a dreary Christmas this will be! If we
only had a few cents left, we could buy a little loaf of white bread
and a bottle of light wine. It would be nice to sprinkle the Yule
log with you once more before--" And his sunken eyes shine when he
thinks of the wine and the white bread. But what is to be done? They
have nothing left, the poor wretches,--no watches, no money. True,
Salvette has a money-order for forty francs stored away in the lining
of his vest. But that must be kept in reserve for the day of their
release, or rather for the first halt at a French inn. It is sacred
money, and cannot be touched. Still, poor Bernadou is so low, who can
tell whether he will ever live through the journey home? And while
it is still time, might it not be better to celebrate this Christmas
together? Without saying a word of it to his comrade, Salvette rips
his vest lining; and after a long struggle and a whispered discussion
with Augustus Cahn, he slips into his hand this little scrap of stiff
yellow paper smelling of powder and stained with blood, after which
he assumes a look of deep mystery. He rubs his hands and laughs
softly to himself as he glances over at Bernadou. As the darkness
falls, he stands with his forehead against the window-pane, and stirs
from his post only when he sees old Augustus Cahn turn the corner
breathlessly, with a little basket on his arm.