ded cheering up. All the
while there was that black snake coiled around my heart, squeezing
tighter and tighter. But my body grew stronger every day. The wounds
were all healed. I was walking around. In July the doctor-in-chief sent
for me to his office. He said: 'You are cured, Pierre Duval, but you
are not yet fit to fight. You are low in your mind. You need cheering
up. You are to have a month's furlough and repose. You shall go home to
your farm. How is it that you call it?' I suppose I had been babbling
about it in my sleep and one of the nurses had told him. He was always
that way, that little Doctor Roselly, taking an interest in the men,
talking with them and acting friendly. I said the farm was called
'_L'Alouette_'--rather a foolish name. 'Not at all,' he answered; 'it
is a fine name, with the song of a bird in it. Well, you are going back
to "_L'Alouette_" to hear the lark sing for a month, to kiss your wife
and your children, to pick gooseberries and currants. Eh, my boy, what
do you think of that? Then, when the month is over, you will be a new
man. You will be ready to fight again at Verdun. Remember, they have
not passed and they shall not pass! Good luck to you, Pierre Duval.' So
I went back to the farm as fast as I could go."

He was silent for a few moments, letting his thoughts wander through
the pleasant paths of that little garden of repose. His eyes were
dreaming, his lips almost smiled.

"It was sweet at '_L'Alouette_,' very sweet, Father. The farm was in
pretty good order and the kitchen-garden was all right, though the
flowers had been a little neglected. You see, my wife, Josephine, she
is a very clever woman. She had kept up the things that were the most
necessary. She had hired one of the old neighbors and a couple of boys
to help her with the plowing and planting. The harvest she sold as it
stood. Our yoke of cream-colored oxen and the roan horse were in good
condition. Little Pierrot, who is five, and little Josette, who is
three, were as brown as berries. They hugged me almost to death. But it
was Josephine herself who was the best of all. She is only twenty-six,
Father, and so beautiful still, with her long chestnut hair and her
eyes like brown stones shining under the waters of a brook. I tell you
it was good to get her in my arms again and feel her lips on mine. And
to wake in the early morning, while the birds were singing, and see her
face beside me on the white pillow, sleeping lik