In our corner, spoken of as the “club” by the men of the “fond” (the window end), every one is silent. Bertrand is in Ciotat. Guido, hunched against the wall, his képi pulled down over his eyes, seems to be turning over thoughts even more disconsolate than those of the Imitation or of Ecclesiastes. Boude, the good Boude, with the soul of an artist who has lost his way in everyday life, stands up, looking at our trio.
All of a sudden, Bertrand, with a yawn, murmurs, “I would sell my life for a penny.”
Boude smiles at his alter ego. “For my part, old chap, I brought with me from Marseilles a certain store of philosophy.”
“That also gets used up, Sergeant Boude,” says Guido, “just as certainly as the cigar that you are smoking. And once your cigar is finished, in these times of dearth, you may find it difficult to get another.” Then, turning to me, and lowering his harsh voice: “Richeris,” he says, “is the happiest of us all. For him there is nothing but God. If God wills it, he is satisfied; if God does not will it, he is equally satisfied.”
Silence for a time.
Then Boude remarks quietly: “I’m going to visit big Boétti. His dreams seem to come true. On the 19th, the night before our capture, he had a red dream. Perhaps last night he may have had a blue one.”
“Oh,” observes Guido, with a laugh, “I too have, not dreams, but presentiments which come true. The day of Boétti’s dream, when we had left Bourdonnaye and were in the marshy wood just before you get to Dieuze, I said to myself, ‘This time it’s all up with you, old chap, absolutely all up!’ You see, it is all up, and for a good long time!”
Then Boude, “Oh, Guido, you see everything in dark colours.”
“Quite true, I see everything in dark colours. I leave it to you others to gaze through the rose-tinted window. I keep to the gloomy outlook. Until a day or two ago I had hopes of freedom in October. But since Riou has read us the news, what he calls ‘good news,’ I hope no longer.”
“All the same, I’m going to see Boétti,” declares Sergeant Boude, opening the door.