We walked as far as the edge of the wood. The clear light of an open meadow seemed to bring the doctor back within the bounds of professional etiquette; for he said in a different tone:
“Excuse me, sir, for having made you consider things which must seem strange to a man with your point of view. I do not regret having taken this opportunity to speak to you about Dauche. He hasn’t, I believe, any near relations in uninvaded territory. You are interested in him, and I must warn you: he is lost. I’m going to add, since you seek his friendship, that at any moment something will happen to him, bringing death rapidly in its train.”
I had only known Dauche for a short time, but I was overwhelmed. Some meaningless words came to my lips. I said something like “How terrible!” But the doctor, with a pale smile, ended by saying:
“Alas! sir, you will do as I and many others have done: you will get used to living in the presence of men who yet share our world, but of whom one knows without a shadow of doubt that they are already dead.”
I could not get accustomed to such a thing. The conversation had taken place towards noon. I spent the rest of the day in avoiding the sight of Dauche—cowardly conduct which found justification in my inability to conceal my thoughts.
Night found me deprived of sleep, but it was doubly useful: it gave me time to get the better of certain impressions, and enabled me to plead sickness for my changed disposition.
As I was getting out of bed, Dauche suggested that we should both go for a walk in the woods. I was on the point of refusing; but his smile was so affectionate and engaging that I hadn’t the courage to pretend illness. Besides, the weather was radiant.
The brilliant sunshine in which some vigour still remained, the delicate tints of a landscape rich in the mists of early morning, and perhaps a healthy desire to be cheerful and forget—all that suddenly led my thoughts away from the depths into which they had sunk.
Dauche began running amid the tall grass, which was slowly fading to a pale amber. His laughter, you would have said, was that of a boy. Recounting all kinds of anecdotes and sayings, he played the games loved by his own children, and sometimes he used to stop suddenly and speak with respect and affection of the child he did not yet know, and of the mother who waited for him in exile.