“No,” I said, “not now, later on when I have grown worthier and deserve your esteem, then shake hands and you will do well.”
We went home, my second upbraiding me all the way, while I kissed him. All my comrades heard of the affair at once and gathered together to pass judgment on me the same day.
“He has disgraced the uniform,” they said; “let him resign his commission.”
Some stood up for me: “He faced the shot,” they said.
“Yes, but he was afraid of his other shot and begged for forgiveness.”
“If he had been afraid of being shot, he would have shot his own pistol first before asking forgiveness, while he flung it loaded into the forest. No, there’s something else in this, something original.”
I enjoyed listening and looking at them. “My dear friends and comrades,” said I, “don’t worry about my resigning my commission, for I have done so already. I have sent in my papers this morning and as soon as I get my discharge I shall go into a monastery—it’s with that object I am leaving the regiment.”
When I had said this every one of them burst out laughing.
“You should have told us of that first, that explains everything, we can’t judge a monk.”
They laughed and could not stop themselves, and not scornfully, but kindly and merrily. They all felt friendly to me at once, even those who had been sternest in their censure, and all the following month, before my discharge came, they could not make enough of me. “Ah, you monk,” they would say. And every one said something kind to me, they began trying to dissuade me, even to pity me: “What are you doing to yourself?”