That evening I did not go out and remained at
home to muse in solitude. Stretched on a sofa, with
half-closed eyes, and body made torpid by the heat,
almost slumbering, I liked to go back to my past, to
bring to life things dead and to recall memories which
escaped me. Five years had passed since the war—the war in which I began my apprenticeship in life by
entering the tormenting profession of a man-killer. . . .
Five years already! . . . Still it seemed like yesterday
. . . the smoke, the fields covered with snow, stained
with blood and ruins, these fields where, like ghosts, we wandered about piteously, worn out with fatigue. . . .
Only five years! . . . And when I came back to the
Priory, the house was empty, my father dead! . . . My
letters had come to him only rarely, at long intervals
and they had always been short, dry, written in haste
on the back of my knapsack. Only once, after a night
of terrible anguish had I become tender, affectionate;
only once had I poured out my heart to him, and this
letter which should have brought him sweetness, hope and consolation he had not received! . . . Every morning, Marie told me, he used to come out to the gate an hour before the arrival of the mailman and watch the turn of the road, a prey to mortal fear. Old wood cutters would pass on their way to the woods; my father used to question them:
"Hey there, uncle Ribot, you have not seen the mailman, by any chance?"
"Why no, Monsieur Mintié—it's a little early yet."
"Oh, no, uncle Ribot, he is rather late."
"That might be, Monsieur Mintié, that might be."
When he noticed the kepi and red collar of the mailman he became pale, trembling with the fear of bad news. As the mailman approached, the heart of my father beat furiously, almost bursting.
"Nothing but magazines today, Monsieur Mintié."
