The older man shrugged his shoulders.
“Too friendly by far. They are all the same, these boches—they would do anything to make us forget,” he said, divesting himself of his belt. “I am going to have a rest and a cigarette before we walk back into the town.”
The young man wandered around the room, scanning the titles of the books on the shelves, picking up the various bibelots scattered about. Suddenly he uttered a startled cry.
“Mon Dieu! Look at this!”
The major turned to him. In his hand he held a small snapshot photograph. He stared at it, trembling violently.
“What is the matter?”
“Look!—It is she!” The young man’s face was a study in horrified astonishment.
Chassaigne looked over his comrade’s shoulder at the photograph. It represented their host arm in arm with a good-looking young woman.
“She?” he queried, with a tolerant smile. “Be a little more explicit, my dear Vincent.”