I said the farm was called
_'L'Alouette'_--rather a foolish name. 'Not, at all,' he
answered; 'it is a fine name, with the song of a bird in it. Well,
you are going back to _"L'Alouette"_ to hear the lark sing for
a month, to kiss your wife and your children, to pick gooseberries
and currants. Eh, my boy, what do you think of that? Then, when
the month is over, you will be a new man. You will be ready to fight
again at Verdun. Remember they have not passed and they shall not
pass! Good luck to you, Pierre Duval.' So I went back to the farm
as fast as I could go."
He was silent for a few moments, letting his thoughts wander through
the pleasant paths of that little garden of repose. His eyes were
dreaming, his lips almost smiled.
"It was sweet at _'L'Alouette,'_ very sweet, Father. The
farm was in pretty good order and the kitchen-garden was all right,
though, the flowers had been a little neglected. You see, my wife,
Josephine, she is a very clever woman. She had kept up the things
that were the most necessary. She had hired one of the old neighbors
and a couple of boys to help her with the ploughing and planting.
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