Paul laughed and shook his head.
“I daren’t risk catching the little Boutreau’s malady until I have finished this report.”
“You have a month.”
“I know. But I want to go back to my battalion and command my company. Some day we are going to march to Fez. Don’t forget it!”
Gerard de Montignac sat down, took off his cap, lit a cigarette and drew up his chair to the table.
“You are a serious one,” he said very sagely, “a fastidious, serious one. When you look at me I feel that you are very sorry for me—that poor Gerard—and that you know I can’t help it. And when there are Generals about, I point to you and say loudly: ‘Ah, there is a serious one who will go far!’ But here privately I am afraid for you, Paul. I say to myself, ‘He is not of stone. Some day things will happen with that serious one, and where we common people scrape our shins, he will break his neck. When we amuse ourselves for a month, he will marry the Sergeant-Major’s daughter.’ ”
Paul had heard this homily a good many times before. He just went on writing as if his friend were not in the room.
“But I am not sure that something has not already happened to you—oh, a long time ago.”
Paul’s pen stopped abruptly, but he did not look up from the page.
“Why are you not sure?” he asked.