"Wasn't it a gallant act to go to that advanced post, so near the enemy,
all alone, at the head of all the Frenchmen? Weren't they all behind
you, to the very end of the country, right away to the Pyrenees? Did
they not all rely on your coolness, your keen sight, your vigilance? You
were only hit by one bomb, but I think you might have had several, and
still be with us. And besides, the notice, far from being exaggerated,
is really insufficient; it says you have lost a leg, whereas you have
lost two! It seems to me that this fully compensates for anything
excessive with regard to the bombs."
"That's true!" agrees Leglise, laughing. "But I don't want to be made
out a hero."
"My good lad, people won't ask what you think before they appreciate and
honour you. It will be quite enough to look at your body."
Then we had to part, for the war goes on, and every day there are fresh
wounded.
Leglise left us nearly cured. He left with some comrades, and he was not
the least lively of the group.
"I was the most severely wounded man in the train," he wrote to me, not
without a certain pride.
Since then, Leglise has written to me often. His letters breathe a
contented calm. I receive them among the vicissitudes of the campaign;
on the highways, in wards where other wounded men are moaning, in fields
scoured by the gallop of the cannonade.
And always something beside me murmurs, mutely:
"You see, you see, he was wrong when he said he would rather die."
I am convinced of it, and this is why I have told your story. You will
forgive me, won't you, Leglise, my friend?