"Don't talk like that. It would be a pity!"
He sticks to his idea, for he has chosen me to assist him in the realization of his dreams. Finally he remarks—
"You will leave me free to go out whenever I want, won't you? And every morning I'll go and kill some little birds for you."
In the evening we chat away with quite civilian freedom of mind. We forget both what we are engaged upon, and where we are. Plans for the future are discussed without any one thinking of making the remark that our talk is very silly. We pay attention neither to our odd-looking accoutrements, nor to our unshaven chins. We are not even aware of our tired condition.
We go out into the yard for a quiet smoke. It is very mild; the sky is lit up with stars, as in times of peace. Away towards the north we hear the firing of the sentries. The cannon is booming on our left.
Reymond does not feel sleepy; neither do I.
"Suppose we write an article for the Figaro?"
Agreed. I set to work. After scribbling away for an hour, I hand a few sheets across to Reymond. After reading them, he declares—
"How idiotic!"