As for Martial, naturally, that isn’t his job, he dresses the soldiers’ wounds while they’re under attack, with shells falling all around him … And to think that he could have stayed behind the lines but didn’t so he could serve his country better, that he put off his wedding, even though he really wanted it …’ Not knowing how he could show what he felt, Bernard shyly touched Thérèse’s arm.

‘Will you think of me once in a while, when I’m gone?’ he asked.

And immediately he berated himself: it was a silly thing to say, whiny, unworthy of a warrior. But he suddenly felt his heart fill with tenderness. Everything around him, these familiar faces, the little dining room that was so warm and peaceful, the table on which he and Thérèse had played card games and backgammon, everything, the little pitcher with the clicking spout he had found so funny when he was little, right down to the pink glass salt cellar sitting in front of him, everything seemed pleasant, friendly and full of precious, deep significance. ‘This might really be the last time that I’m warm, that I feel good, that I want for nothing,’ he thought. ‘I might be killed as soon as I get over there. Brrr … it feels really strange to think about that …’

A cold little chill ran across his shoulders, so sharply and suddenly that he turned his head, as if someone had breathed on his back:

‘If I am killed, at least I will have experienced this, which is better than anything in the world: Papa, Mama, our family and friends. I will never have travelled or been in love …“I am prepared to die, O Goddess, but not before having known love …”.* Martial … One night with the woman you love, your wife … Thérèse … No, I mustn’t let myself think such thoughts. I must respect Thérèse. It isn’t possible that I could be killed as soon as I get over there, is it? But then again, if that does happen, what glory! Everyone will love me, feel sorry for me. I will remain alive in people’s memory, I will remain alive as a hero. Yes, as I fall to my death on that far-off battlefield, facing the enemy, I will feel that great surge of love upon me. It will console me, rock me gently to sleep. What is that thing we call Glory? It is to be loved by as many people as possible … Not just my parents and my friends, but even by strangers. And I, too, I will be happy to have died for them. For there’s no doubt about it, if there were no daring fellows like me to defend you, you’d be shaking in your boots, ladies,’ he concluded, imagining he was speaking to all the women whom he found lovable, sweet and kind.

‘They’ll think about me. They’ll worry about me … They’ll send me packages, letters, nice things to eat. And if I come back … with a medal for valour … we’ll celebrate it here. Everyone will drink a toast to me. Then I’ll be able to say, just like Détang: “I held the enemy back with my sharp bayonet. Strike! I pinned him to a wall like a butterfly.” Yes, but what if it’s the enemy who … Humph! I’m not going to think about that. One thing at a time. For now, I’m happy,’ he told himself, and had some more to drink. He settled back in his chair like an old veteran, legs apart and hands in his pockets. It wasn’t very polite, but too bad! It was the audacity of the hero: they just had to put up with it. Détang offered him a cigar; he lit it while looking furtively at his mother. Would she finally understand that he was now a man, that you don’t forbid a man from having a cigar, especially the night before he’s heading for battle? But no! She would not let it go: she clasped her hands together and spoke to him as if he were a child she’d caught playing with matches:

‘Oh, Bernard!’

‘What do you mean, oh, Bernard!’ he thought. ‘These women are unbelievable, honestly!’

‘Won’t that be bad for you, my dear?’

‘Of course not, Mama, not at all,’ he replied with affectionate indulgence. He even added: ‘I’m used to it, you know,’ even though it was the first cigar he’d ever had in his life. He took a long puff of it with a serious expression on his face.

Thérèse had no white dress, no bouquet of lilies, no crown of orange blossom. She was a war bride so wore a modest grey suit and a black hat.

‘Twenty-four hours,’ thought Martial, ‘twenty-four hours and six have already gone by.