ek in the leather bags of the post-office. I had only just time to
recognise the writing of my uncle Lazare.

"Forward, march!" shouted the major.

I had to march. For a few seconds I held the poor letter in my hand,
devouring it with my eyes; it burnt my fingers; I would have given
everything in the world to have sat down and wept at ease whilst reading
it. I had to content myself with slipping it under my tunic against my
heart.

I have never experienced such agony. By way of consolation I said to
myself what my uncle had so often repeated to me: I was in the summer of
my life, at the moment of the fierce struggle, and it was essential that I
should perform my duty bravely, if I would have a peaceful and bountiful
autumn. But these reasons exasperated me the more: this letter, which had
come to speak to me of happiness, burnt my heart, which had revolted
against the folly of war. And I could not even read it! I was perhaps
going to die without knowing what it contained, without perusing my uncle
Lazare's affectionate remarks for the last time.

We had reached the top of the hill. We were to await orders there to
advance. The battle-field had been marvellously chosen to slaughter one
another at ease. The immense plain expanded for several leagues, and was
quite bare, without a house or tree. Hedges and bushes made slight spots
on the whiteness of the ground. I have never since seen such a country, an
ocean of dust, a chalky soil, bursting open here and there, and displaying
its tawny bowels. And never either have I since witnessed a sky of such
intense purity, a July day so lovely and so warm; at eight o'clock the
sultry heat was already scorching our faces. O the splendid morning, and
what a sterile plain to kill and die in!

Firing had broken out with irregular crackling sounds, a long time since,
supported by the solemn growl of the cannon. The enemy, Austrians dressed
in white, had quitted the heights, and the plain was studded with long
files of men, who looked to me about as big as insects. One might have
thought it was an ant-hill in insurrection. Clouds of smoke hung over the
battle-field. At times, when these clouds broke asunder, I perceived
soldiers in flight, smitten with terrified panic. Thus there were currents
of fright which bore men away, and outbursts of shame and courage which
brought them back under fire.

I could neither hear the cries of the wounded, nor see the blood flow. I
could only dist