"A great artist," whispered Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire in his ear.
"He studied at the schools in New Orleans and then for two years in
Paris. But he came back to fight. Nothing could keep Julien from the
army, but he brought his violin with him. We Latins, or at least we
who are called Latins, steep our souls in music. It's not merely
intellectual with us. It's passion, fire, abandonment, triumph and all
the great primitive emotions of the human race."
Harry's feelings differed somewhat from those of Lieutenant-Colonel
St. Hilaire--in character but not in power--and as young de Langeais
played on he began to think what a loss a stray bullet could make.
Why should a great artist be allowed to come on the battle line? There
were hundreds of thousands of common men. One could replace another,
but nobody could replace the genius, a genius in which the whole world
shared. It was not possible for either drill or training to do it,
and yet a little bullet might take away his life as easily as it would
that of a plowboy. They were all alike to the bullets and the shells.
De Langeais finished, and a great shout of applause arose. The cheering
became so insistent that he was compelled to play again.
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