—Ah! two wounds! And are they still painful?
—Sometimes, when the weather is stormy. And yours?
—Mine, Captain! but I have none. I have not had like you the honour of shedding any blood for our Holy Father.
—A pretty cuckoo. It doesn't matter, you may have got a wound somewhere else.
—Where? enquired Marcel simply.
—How do I know? We get them right and left, when we are least thinking of it.
—Like all accidents.
—Well, if you had been the chaplain of my regiment, you would have had a famous accident. He was a right worthy apostle. He wanted to teach the catechism to the daughter of our cantinière, a bud of sixteen, and the little one put so much ardour into the study that the Holy Spirit made her hatch. Her parents beat her unmercifully, and the poor girl died of grief. Our hero, who knew how to get himself out of it with unction as white as snow, did not all the same betake himself to Paradise. A pretty Italian gave him his reckoning. Quinte, quatorze and the point. Game finished. He died in the hospital pulling an ugly face. That was the best action of his life. Well, old boy, what do you say to that?
—I have not exactly understood, replied Marcel, trying to keep his countenance.
—You are very hard of understanding. I will tell you another story and I will be clearer. I see what you want—the dots on the i's.