Poor thing … She’s thinking about her husband, her son. And that other woman who watches them march by, such sadness in her eyes. She looks like Mama … What will Mama say when she finds out that I want to join up, “enlist before being conscripted” as they call it? For I’ve made up my mind, I’m not waiting until it’s my turn! Besides, everyone agrees it will all be over in three months. Then what will I do? Stay at school, slog away like a fool, get punished with extra homework like a little kid when there is this, this glory, this bloodshed, this war? No, no, no! No, thank you! I want to go, and right away, go far away, and do everything! God, what beautiful weather it is, how hot the sun is! How striking that soldier’s uniform with its red trousers! And the horses! Can anything ever be more beautiful than a fine-looking, lively animal that prances, nuzzles his reins and has lather in his nostrils? I want to be a cavalryman, a dragoon, because of their helmets. Oh, the young ladies are blowing kisses to the soldiers! How proud those men must be. Women love soldiers. I want to be loved, but not by just one woman, by many women; I want them to fight each other for my favours, while I simply stand among them, watching, in my handsome uniform … When they see the way I look at them, they’ll know I am their lord and master. But all of that is really childish. I’m no longer interested in women. No! Not even that little chambermaid who gives me the eye when we pass on the stairs. I want to live for the smell of gunpowder, war and glory! There’s an old man who must have fought in ’70; how moved he must be! Don’t worry, Monsieur, I’m here, me, little Bernard Jacquelain, and I’ll bet you anything that I will bring back Victory under our flag! Oh, I want to sing, to shout, to leap! They can say whatever they want but I’m joining up, I’m joining up, I’ve made up my mind. I’ll be eighteen next week. How old do you have to be to join up? It will be a nightmare if I can’t make it happen. Oh, that music! They’re playing over there. The trumpets are blaring, and the drums … My God, it’s beautiful! To advance to the sound of that music and then, charge! Swords drawn! Bayonets fixed!’

His emotion and exhaustion – he had walked through half of Paris – left him out of breath. He had to stop for a moment to lean against a wall. The battle music sent shivers down his spine, filled his eyes with tears. He suddenly felt as though he were being flayed alive, every muscle, every nerve was exposed as the sounds of the trumpets swept over him; and every single note was being played on his body, on his own flesh. Every beat of the drum battered his bones. ‘And that’s how it feels,’ he thought. ‘At least, that’s how it will feel when I’m a soldier. I’ll be part of the regiment like … like a drop of blood is part of the red river that flows through my heart.’

He pulled himself up to his full height with pride: he stood to attention, listening to the fanfare that faded away in the distance. The air still quivered like the string on a violin. To Bernard’s ears, everything was singing: the river, the ancient cobblestones, the mass of people. The crowd was tightly packed now; everyone rushed towards the newspaper stands. The men talked endlessly, gesturing broadly, waving their walking sticks about. You could hear them saying: ‘The Tsar … the Kaiser …’ Their faces were pale, drawn, serious. Bernard looked at them scornfully:

‘Old men! They’re all talk. I’m going to act; I’m going to join up,’ he thought.

His elbows tight against his sides, chin raised, jogging along and imagining himself charging behind the raised flag, Bernard crossed the street, went into a bakery, bought two pastries, ate them standing up with a fierce look on his face, then took the metro home; he wanted to announce his decision to his family that very evening. ‘Mama will cry, but Papa will back me up.