manity may continue its work
of renovation.

Julio was the only one who would have prolonged the family, passing
on the name. The Desnoyers had died; his daughter's children would be
Lacour. . . . All was ended.

Don Marcelo even felt a certain satisfaction in thinking of his
approaching death. More than anything else, he wished to pass out of the
world. He no longer had any curiosity as to the end of this war in which
he had been so interested. Whatever the end might be, it would be sure
to turn out badly. Although the Beast might be mutilated, it would again
come forth years afterward, as the eternal curse of mankind. . . . For
him the only important thing now was that the war had robbed him of his
son. All was gloomy, all was black. The world was going to its ruin.
. . . He was going to rest.

Chichi had clambered up on the hillock which contained, perhaps, more
than their dead. With furrowed brow, she was contemplating the plain.
Graves . . . graves everywhere! The recollection of Julio had already
passed to second place in her mind. She could not bring him back, no
matter how much she might weep.

This vision of the fields of death made her think all the more of the
living. As her eyes roved from side to side, she tried, with her hands,
to keep down the whirling of her wind-tossed skirts. Rene was standing
at the foot of the knoll, and several times after a sweeping glance at
the numberless mounds around them, she looked thoughtfully at him, as
though trying to establish a relationship between her husband and those
below. And he had exposed his life in combats just as these men had
done! . . .

"And you, my poor darling," she continued aloud. "At this very moment
you, too, might be lying here under a heap of earth with a wooden cross
at your head, just like these poor unfortunates!"

The sub-lieutenant smiled sadly. Yes, it was so.

"Come here; climb up here!" said Chichi impetuously. "I want to give you
something!"

As soon as he approached her, she flung her arms around his neck,
pressed him against the warm softness of her breast, exhaling a perfume
of life and love, and kissed him passionately without a thought of her
brother, without seeing her aged parents grieving below them and longing
to die. . . . And her skirts, freed by the breeze, molded her figure in
the superb sweep of the curves of a Grecian vase.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, by
Vic