Hélène slowly folded the letter. Two or three times, while deciphering its contents, she had raised her head to glance at the soldier. He still remained close to the wall, and his lips stirred, as though to emphasize each sentence in the letter by a slight movement of the chin. No doubt he knew its contents by heart.
“Then you are Zephyrin Lacour, are you not?” asked Hélène.
He began to laugh and wagged his head.
“Come in, my lad; don’t stay out there.”
He made up his mind to follow her, but he continued standing close to the door, while Hélène sat down. She had scarcely seen him in the darkness of the ante-room. He must have been just as tall as Rosalie; a third of an inch less, and he would have been exempted from service. With red hair, cut very short, he had a round, freckled, beardless face, with two little eyes like gimlet holes. His new greatcoat, much too large for him, made him appear still more dumpy, and with his red-trousered legs wide apart, and his large peaked cap swinging before him, he presented both a comical and pathetic sight—his plump, stupid little person plainly betraying the rustic, although he wore a uniform.
Hélène desired to obtain some information from him.
“You left Beauce a week ago?” she asked.
“Yes, madame!”
“And here you are in Paris. I suppose you are not sorry?”
“No, madame.”