"Really, Monsieur Dumas," he said to me, "I didn't think you were as mad as that."
"Ah! you know me?" I said.
"I was on guard one night at the Odéon when Christine was being played and I had the honour of seeing you."
"Then let us talk like two good friends."
"That is indeed what I am doing, it seems to me."
"Why am I a madman?"
"You are a madman, first of all, because you risk getting yourself killed, when it is not your calling to get killed; secondly, you are mad for asking us to allow you to pass through, because you know very well we shall not do so.... Besides, look what will happen to you if we grant your request—the same that has happened to these poor devils who are being brought in...."
And he showed me two or three wounded, returning leaning upon the shoulders of their comrades or laid on stretchers.
"Oh, ah! but you yourself? What are you doing here?" I asked him.
"A very sad thing, monsieur,—our duty. By good luck, the regiment has, so far, received no orders beyond the prevention of traffic. We are restricting ourselves, as you see, to the execution of that order. So long as no one fires on us, we shall fire on no one either. Go and tell that to your men and let them turn back quietly, and if, to go further still, you have enough influence over them to persuade them to return to their homes, you will be doing the very best deed possible!"