Amongst us there was a hum of dissent.
"I quite understand," said the officer, "but when you remember that
your duty is that of heroism without thought of revenge--just pure
heroism, that of apostles who are made of the stuff martyrs are made
of...."
He who had protested, and who happened to be standing next to me, was
a dear old friend of mine, one of those valiant souls who fear nothing
and nobody. He was a fine, soldierly priest.
He was among the number of those who were off to the front, and his
face had lit up when he heard his name called.
"Thank Heaven! I was so afraid of being left behind."
To be left behind was a kind of disgrace we felt ... and we old
territorials who were to be sent to the hospitals in the west, felt it
badly.
The Abbé Duroy was already living it all in spirit. His eyes saw
the near future and his heart beat with joy at the thought of his
great work. He was going down to the terrible "là-bas," to anguish
unspeakable and to death, and in his person, I thought I saw all the
priests of France going towards the frontiers, invested with the divine
mission of opening the gates to eternal life to those who were quitting
this poor mortal life.
When we had separated, in order to pack our traps, Duroy took me apart.
"You are jealous," he said.
"Why not?"
"I understand. After all this new life is part of our very being. Do
you think though that it was necessary to be mobilised in order to do
what we are doing? For twenty years, always, we have been patriots ...
soldiers who blessed and upheld."
There was a bugle call. It was the first signal for departure. He held
out his hand ... our eyes met and spoke the same great thought, the
same great fear.
I was the weaker man, and the question which wrung my heart, escaped to
my lips.
"When shall we meet again?"
He, proud and stern at the thought of danger, repeated my words.
"Shall we meet again?"
Then he broke the short silence. "To die like that, and only thirty....
I'm afraid I don't deserve such a grace."
Then becoming the true soldier he always was, he struck me on the
shoulder and said--
"I've an idea, old friend. I'll write to you from 'là-bas,' as often
as I can ... and from the impressions you get, joined to mine, I'm
sure you'll be able to write some touching pages. I am your War
Correspondent."
He embraced me, and I felt that his promise was one of those which are
kept.