"Sacré, but I thought you were about to sleep." The tone sounded as if it might be angry. "I assure you it will soon be morning."
"Don't feel like sleeping. If you don't want to talk I can easily be quiet."
"No—no! It makes no difference to me. I've had my forty winks. We'll talk, if you want. Not that I was ever one for doing much talking. I'm too little of a fool for that—still—Why don't you lean back here beside me against this beam?"
He wriggled backwards and propped his drooping head stiffly against the wood of the cross.
"I can't see you at all." He closed his eyes; it wasn't worth the throbbing strain of it to try to penetrate the obliterating, dripping darkness. He couldn't do it. "I'd like to see you."
"I'd like to see you, my friend. But what good are wishes, eh? Do you say you live at Chalet Corneille?"
On the instant he was alert.
"Why do you ask?"
"Curiosity, my friend. I know of some good people there by name of Fornier. Perhaps they might be friends of yours."
"Don't think I know them." He paused to collect his wits. He had been startled by the man's suave question. He wondered if he was going to try to trap him. He thought he couldn't have done it more neatly himself. This job of stalling when he was almost too tired to think wasn't an easy thing to do. He called upon his imagination. "I'm an artist," he lied smoothly. "Sent over here to paint war scenes. I couldn't miss the chance of a ransacked village. Its picturesque value is tremendous. I've just finished my painting of Chalet Corneille."