IV
I glance at my calendar in dismay. Is it possible that three months have gone, and that it is time for Amieux to have another "permission"? How long the week of his furlough always seems, how the three months between race away! Of course we have the greatest regard for Amieux. We feel that his uniform alone (he is a chasseur alpin who has been a first-line fighter since the Battle of the Marne) would entitle him to our services, but more than that, his personality commands our respect, sound, steady, quiet Amieux whose sturdy body is wounded in one place after another, who is repaired hastily in the nearest hospital and uncomplainingly goes back to the trenches, his sleeve decorated with another one of the V-shaped marks which denote wounds. The only trouble with Amieux as a household hero is a total dearth of subjects of conversation. You see, he is a glass-blower by profession. We often feel that if we were not as ignorant of glass-blowing as Amieux is of everything else, we could get on famously with him. As it is ...
"Oh bon jour, M. Amieux," I say, jumping to my feet, "welcome back to the rear! All well?"
"Yes, madame," he says with as ponderous an emphasis on the full-stop as that of any taciturn New England farmer.
"Well, has it been hard, the last three months?" I ask.
"No, madame."
I draw a long breath.
"Do the packages we send, the chocolate, the cigarettes, the soap—do they reach you promptly?"
"Yes, madame. Thank you, madame."
The full-stop is more overpowering with each answer.