atures, tormented, empty-armed, who, however, are the
bigger for all this, easy in their minds and free already in their
bitter freedom?"

Yes there are many women to-night without husbands or lovers who wonder
as they lie in bed; then they sit up and lean on their elbows ... they
don't _know_ yet or suspect anything ... but they don't sleep, they
can't sleep; it's too absurd to think that a woman can live all alone,
sleep alone, even breathe. And then it might be that the closest union
is a prison after all.

At last I fall asleep, and in the morning, in the bald, shivering
twilight, I go back to my doings of the day before, somewhat cowardly
doings. Dull habit, which greases the machinery of life, leads me
blindly along the streets to the office.

Was it only two months ago that with despair in my heart I passed this
corner where the chestnut-stand sends up its whistling steam? His letter
in my bosom had told of the night attack and of his possible death; a
brief, heart-rending farewell. Is he in less danger this morning, is he
less cold, less hungry? I just passed the same corner worried for fear I
might be late. The whole way I had been thinking of my dress and winter
hat.

That's how you get used to the martyrdom of others.

Even if it is the flesh of your flesh that undergoes the martyrdom, even
if it is the man of your love--ah, don't say no--you get _used_ to it.
In suffering one person cannot take the place of another, and pain
cannot be shared. The first day, because grief turns your head, you
think you are sharing the other person's pain, but the other days, all
the other days?

Why not have the courage to look crude reality crudely in the face?
There are no people who are inseparable, there are no couples who are
inseparable.

He is in the trenches, the men are in the trenches, engulfed in misery,
exposed to danger, plagued by vermin, and I am here alive and untouched,
grazing this large wall patched with three-colored placards. "Women ...
your noble role ... noble work ... honor...."

Honor? What honor? I work. Isn't that natural? He is suffering, he is
going to die. Didn't I see my own dormant energies wake up? And if he
has given all, have I not taken all?

Five minutes to nine! I hurry, raising my coat collar in a shiver and
clasping my hands inside my soft muff.

At the end of the street a dusty gust driving a handful of people along
like dead leaves, women with billowing skirts, a tramping