Wilson and René—a French-Canadian lad—wrinkled their noses in unison over it; then Wilson drawled:
"Smells—like a—disease—we uster have—in the ward upstairs."
But René's atavistic sense approved the cheese. "Dat's bon fromage," he declaimed emphatically. "Cheese ain't good until it smells like dat."
"Then folks to home eats a lot what's bad fer them—don't they?" Wilson retorted, with mild satire; "an' them so healthy too!"
René disdained controversy, and with unruffled dignity continued laying the table. During the first few months of our labours he had been orderly to no less a person than the senior major—hence his feeling of superiority. But he and the Second-in-Command hadn't always agreed; the senior major had a penchant for collecting excess baggage, and it behooved his unfortunate batman to pack, unpack and handle his ever-increasing number of boxes and bags. By the time we reached Boulogne these had become a great burden. René looked ruefully down upon it before he started to lift it, piece by piece, into the lorrie.
"Ba gosh!" he exclaimed, in perspiring remonstrance, "I hope de war don' last too long—er it'll take one whole train to move de major's bag-gage!"
René was impressionable and had all the romantic instinct of the true Frenchman. As I watched him decorating the table with flowers—we were to have company that night, and it was to be an event of unusual importance to us—my recollection carried me back to a bleak October night on Salisbury Plain. It was scarcely nine p.m., but I had turned in and lay wrapped in my sleeping bag, reading by the light of a candle propped on a cocoa tin. René had just returned from "three days' leave," having travelled over fifty miles to see a little girl whose face had haunted him for weeks. He was flushed with excitement and had to unburden his heart to some one. He stepped into my tent for a moment, the rain running off his cap and coat in little rivulets onto the floor.
"I'm afraid you're in love, René," I teased, after he had given me a glowing account of his trip.
"I t'ink dat's right," he exclaimed, with sparkling eyes. "Why, dat's de purtiest gal what I ever see. Dose arms of hers! Gee, dere ain't lilies so white like dat, an' de roses of her cheeks!—every time I meet her, I see her like more kinds of flowers!"
"But you'll see another bud next week, René," I interjected, "and forget all about this dainty little flower."