"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.
I take him by the arm and lead him away. His sturdy body is shaken by
sobs which are like the neighing of a horse; he is blinded by his tears,
and knocks against all the furniture. He can do nothing but lament in a
broken voice:
"Poor Andre! Poor Andre!"