The top sergeant was drinking his hot drink in little sips. He smiled broadly and put his hand paternal-fashion on Fuselli's knee.
“Sure; you needn't worry, kid. I've got you fixed up all right,” he said; then he added jovially, “Well, let's go see that girl of yours.”
They went out into the dark streets, where the wind, despite the smell of burnt gasolene and army camps, had a faint suavity, something like the smell of mushrooms; the smell of spring.
Yvonne sat under the lamp in the shop, her feet up on a box of canned peas, yawning dismally. Behind her on the counter was the glass case full of yellow and greenish-white cheeses. Above that shelves rose to the ceiling in the brownish obscurity of the shop where gleamed faintly large jars and small jars, cans neatly placed in rows, glass jars and vegetables. In the corner, near the glass curtained door that led to the inner room, hung clusters of sausages large and small, red, yellow, and speckled. Yvonne jumped up when Fuselli and the sergeant opened the door.
“You are good,” she said. “Je mourrais de cafard.” They laughed.
“You know what that mean—cafard?”
“Sure.”
“It is only since the war. Avant la guerre on ne savais pas ce que c'etait le cafard. The war is no good.”
“Funny, ain't it?” said Fuselli to the top sergeant, “a feller can't juss figure out what the war is like.”
“Don't you worry. We'll all get there,” said the top sergeant knowingly.