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Updated: May 21, 2025
And what can be more touching than the poor little bunches of wild flowers which the friends of the dead gather on the banks of ditches, and which are to be seen days afterwards, faded and yet so fair, hanging on the humble crosses? Such was to be the portion of Lagaraldi and Durand. Why should we pity them? We will weep for them, we will not pity them.
Without a moment's loss of time he had run to see what had caused the cries we had heard, and now he had come back at the double to report to me. "Sir, in the third troop, Sergeant Lagaraldi...." "Well?" "He's killed, ... and Corporal Durand too!" "Ah!" "And there are many wounded." I made no answer. Oh! it was horrible! Two poor fellows so full of life and spirits not an hour ago!
Lagaraldi had just got his promotion, and was a soldier of the highest promise; Durand was the model corporal, clean, cheerful, and active. And, even if they had been but mediocre troopers, I knew too well what we officers feel when we lose even a passable Chasseur, to wonder at the melancholy of my charming young comrade. Time went on, and there were no signs of a fresh attack.
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