It never occurred to Pierre Duval, as he trudged those long kilometres
toward the front, that he was doing a penance.

The joy of a mind made up is a potent cordial.

The greetings of comrades on the road put gladness into his heart
and strength into his legs.

It was a hot and dusty journey, and a sober one. But it was not
a sad one. He was going toward that for which he was born. He was
doing that which France asked of him, that which God told him to
do. Josephine would be glad and proud of him. He would never be
ashamed to meet her eyes. As he went, alone or in company with
others, he whistled and sang a bit. He thought of _"L'Alouette"_
a good deal. But not too much. He thought also of the forts of
Douaumont and Vaux.

_"Dame!"_ he cried to himself. "If I could help to win them
back again! That would be fine! How sick that would make those
cursed boches and their knock-kneed Crown Prince!"

At the little village of the headquarters behind Verdun he found
many old friends and companions. They greeted him with cheerful
irony.

"Behold the prodigal! You took your time about coming back, didn't
you? Was the hospital to your taste, the nurses pretty? How is the
wife? Any more children? How goes it, old man?"

"No more children yet," he answered, grinning; "but all goes well.