Reymond, from the loft, thinks he hears my voice. He clambers down and stands amazed at my cadaverous appearance.
"Can it be you, dear old fellow?" he asks. "Well, well, you are a pretty sight!"
He grasps my hands; still I can find nothing to say. Then he carries me off to the lieutenant, the commander, the major.
"Is there a bed for him?" asks the latter.
"Yes."
"Well, let him have it at once, and don't let him be moved. If no complications show themselves to-morrow, he will be on his feet in three days."
They hoist me into the loft. "The Spy" has left, and so I take possession of the folding-bed. Verrier, who has come running up, tucks me in. A corporal, who knows all about drugs, briskly rubs turpentine into my skin.
"Anything fresh here?" I ask.
"I should think so. Two days after you left a new detachment was sent out, including 'the Spy,' Raoul, and Lefranc."
Lefranc was first violin at the Colonne concerts. He would sometimes come up into our loft and play Ravel and Stravinski for us. Down below in the stable slept a couple of muleteers. They shouted out—