But suddenly he calls me. Great dark hollows appear under the smiling
eyes. A livid sweat bathes his forehead.
"Come, come!" he says. "Something terrible is taking hold of me. Surely
I am going to die."
We busy ourselves with the poor paralysed body. The face alone labours
to translate its sufferings. The hands make the very slightest movement
on the sheet. The bullets of the machine-gun have cut off all the rest
from the sources of life.
We do what we can, but I feel his heart beating more feebly; his lips
make immense efforts to beg for one drop, one drop only from the vast
cup of air.
Gradually he escapes from this hell. I divine that his hand makes a
movement as if to detain mine.
"Stay by me," he says; "I am afraid."
I stay by him. The sweat no longer stands on his brow. The horrible
distress passes off. The air flows again into the miserable breast. The
gentle eyes have not ceased to smile.
"You will save me after all," he says; "I have had too miserable a life
to die yet, Monsieur."
I press his hand to give him confidence, and I feel that his hard hand
is happy in mine. My fingers have groped in his flesh, his blood has
flowed over them, and this creates strong ties between two men.
Calm seems completely restored. I talk to him of his beautiful native
place. He was a baker in a village of Le Cantal. I passed through
it once as a traveller in peace time. We recall the scent of the
juniper-bushes on the green slopes in summer, and the mineral fountains
with wonderful flavours that gush forth among the mountains.
"Oh!" he exclaims, "I shall always see you!"
"You will see me, Mercier?"
He is a very simple fellow; he tries to explain, and merely adds:
"In my eyes.... I shall always see you in my eyes."
What else does he see? What other thing is suddenly reflected in his
eyes?
"I think... oh, it is beginning again!"
It is true; the spasm is beginning again. It is terrible. In spite of
our efforts, it overcomes the victim, and this time we are helpless.
"I feel that I am going to die," he says.
The smiling eyes are still fixed imploringly upon me.
"But you will save me, you will save me!"
Death has already laid a disfiguring hand on Mercier.
"Stay by me."
Yes, I will stay by you, and hold your hand. Is there nothing more I can
do for you?
His nostrils quiver. It is hard to have been wretched for forty years,
and to have to give up the humble hope of smelling the pungent scent of
the juniper-bushes once more....
His lips contract, and then relax gradually, so sadly. It is hard to
have suffered for forty years, and to be unable to quench one's last
thirst with the wonderful waters of our mountain springs....
Now the dark sweat gathers again on the hollow brow. Oh, it is hard to
die after forty years of toil, without ever having had leisure to wipe
the sweat from a brow that has always been bent over one's work.
The sacrifice is immense, and we cannot choose our hour; we must make it
as soon as we hear the voice that demands it.