"No," answered Pierre, "the doctors may not have known that I had
it. At all events, they did not know what to do for it. It did
not pass. It grew worse. But I hid it, talking very little, never
telling anybody how I felt. They said I was depressed and needed
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