Paths of Glory Read Online Free Page B

in the wood. The curving of the road seemed to prolong the second leave-taking, and he was grateful to it for doing so.
    On the far side of the plateau the road began to fall away downwards to a shallow valley. Langlois stopped at this point and turned for a last look at the twilight before moving down into the shadow that would soon be night. He gazed, but not as long as he wanted to, at the silent, lovely countryside upon which the afterglow of the sunset lay so peacefully.
    â€œThat’s it,” he formulated the thought, “peace, peacefulness. This that I am looking at is the very essence of it. I myself am the only evidence that the picture is an illusion.” Turning away, and forgetful of Duval’s presence for the moment, he looked down at his own uniform as if to verify its inharmoniousness. He saw the butt of his rifle pushing itself forward on the sling, he saw the bluish cloth on his knee, then his black army boot. He watched his boot far enough along on its first step to see that, on its second, he could bring it down again on the track of a motor-cycle wheel.
    â€œWhat the devil did that corporal . . .” his thought began once more. But, before it had been completed, the question was this time answered by a bugle call which came up to him from the valley below.
    It was sounding the assembly.
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    Had the notes of the bugle been resonant enough to carry some ten kilometres to the southward, they would have reached a divisional headquarters installed in the mairie of a town there, and they would have told the elder of two men alone in a ground-floor room that his orders were being obeyed.
    He was a man in that period of life when appearance can be the most distinguished because although mature, it is not, at the same time, in the least decrepit. That he was aware of this could be seen in the decorousness of his uniform and in his way of wearing it; also in the correctness of his face, clean-shaved except for his moustache—a dash of white on a background of healthy pink. His eyes were blue, steady, and kindly, yet there was no hint there of the sanguine spirit which lay behind them. His mouth and chin were not quite strong, yet by no means were they weak. There were two rows of ribbons on his left breast, and on his right four little loops to which the star of a Grand Officer of the Legion of Honour could be attached for formal or ceremonial occasions. He was the Commander of the Fifteenth Army.
    The other man, General of Division Assolant, did not at the first moment look as though he deserved the nickname by which he was known among the staffs—General Insolent. His attitude was too respectful, and it surprised the Army Commander, who had expected something different in this formidable subordinate, well known to him by report, unseen till today. The Army Commander looked at Assolant with an interest which he took little pains to disguise.
    What he saw was a stocky body set firmly on a pair of solid cavalry legs, legs whose heels could meet but whose knees couldn’t. He saw a uniform that was as unconventional as it was serviceable. The boots and spiral puttees were those of the rank and file, and the breeches had obviously come from an artillery quartermaster’s stores. The tunic was second-hand but of good vintage; it looked enviably loose and comfortable. No one glancing at the uniform would have thought the wearer an officer until his eyes had chanced to light on the three stars worn in a triangle just above the cuffs. But the face was the face of a man of action, of a man who would be satisfied only with a position of command. It was distinctly of the type that is called strong; that is, it was hard, aquiline, brutal even. A close-cropped black moustache suggested that the slit beneath it was a mouth. The slit bent downwards at the corners, the moustache following along, and gave the impression of forcing the flesh of the jaws down with it. This helped to square off a