is twenty-sixth year when he was killed in the trenches of
Consenvoye, in the Woevre, when he was taking part in the outer
defence of Verdun. He seems to have been distinguished by a refinement
of spirit, which is referred to, in different terms, by every one who
has described him. He leaves behind him a volume of poems, "L'Ombre
qui tourne," and various essays and fragments. The journal of the last
days of his life has been edited by M. Maurice Barres, and is a record
of singular delicacy and courage. We see him facing the dreadful
circumstances of the war, made the more dreadful to him because the
horrors are committed in the midst of the familiar scenes of his own
home, and we find him patiently waiting for the signal to lead his men
into action while he holds a volume of Chateaubriand open upon his
knee. The reflections of Marcel Drouet differ in some respects from
those of his most enthusiastic companions. There is a note of
tenderness in them which is unusual, and which is very pathetic. At
the very close of his brief and heroic life, the thoughts of Drouet
reverted to the historic town in which he was born, to Sedan which
still shuddered in his infancy at the recollection of the horrors of
1870. He thought of the dead who fell on that melancholy field; and
then his thoughts turned to those dear faces which he had so recently
left behind. The following passage, in its simplicity, in its
sweetness, deserves to live in the memorial literature of the war:--

"Je pense a vous, mes chers vivants, aux mains des barbares en ce
moment sans doute, mais en le coeur de qui j'ai foi, tant je connais
votre devouement aux choses sublimes.

"Mais aussi je pense a vous, mon Dieu, qui avez voulu toutes ces
choses pour votre plus grand gloire et pour l'etablissement de votre
justice. Tous ces malheurs, ces tristesses, tout ce sang repandu sont
imposes par vous, mon Dieu, en maniere de redemption. Mais votre
soleil glorieux eclairera bientot, j'en suis absolument certain, la
victoire du bon droit qui attend depuis pres d'un demi-siecle. J'y
coopere de toutes mes forces, de toute mon ame. Et si vous me retirez
de ce monde, o Dieu de bonte, permettez que ce soit pour me joindre a
ceux qui m'out precede dans votre sejour, et dont l'affection
terrestre me fut precieuse. C'est toute la priere ardente que je fais
devant le soleil levant, ce jour de Toussaint que sillonnent deja les
obus semeurs de mort, en cette annee 1914 qui verra reta