into my own country as well as I could, being on foot always, and having to work my way from village to village, day by day.
I had lost everything. I had become feeble, stupid, dull: I was what they call a monomaniac, I think. I thought always I saw her face looking toward me amidst the lilac clusters. I never spoke to anyone of her, but that was what I saw, always.
I had lost all the mind I had ever had, and when I met any of my old comrades I shunned them.
Some of them wanted to pity me, to assist me. They meant well, no doubt, but I would sooner that they should have stabbed me. I avoided everyone and everything which could remind me of what I had been, and I was morose, and perhaps in a manner mad; I do not know.
But when I heard of war I seemed to myself to awake. It seemed to call to me like a living creature. I was good for nothing else, but I could still strike, I thought. Besides, I knew he was a soldier. It would go hard if I found him not somewhere in the mêlée.
And indeed I loved France: still, in the misery of my life, I loved her for all that I had had from her.
I loved her for her sunny roads, for her
