A MEDITATION AT THE WINDOW
I clambered down the side of the mountain, and then walked quickly along the road to Ballaigues. The night was serene. A dog was howling in the valley, a harsh bark which sufficed to hold my attention.
It was only when I had got back on to Swiss territory that I thought of the risk I had run of being arrested as a deserter.
I had cut through the woods. Dead branches cracked under my feet. I crushed a glow worm. At last I made out the hotel lights. My heart bounded when I reached it, I don't know what I expected.
There was nobody in the corner of the terrace where we generally gossiped, the Landrys and I. I bowed to the old Portuguese ladies who were enjoying the evening air. From the hall I saw the English installed phlegmatically at their poker table in the smoking-room. A solemn and inscrutable waiter passed me, carrying a tea tray. Nothing abnormal struck me. I wondered whether they knew.
I went down on to the terrace again. A silhouette rose from the shadows. By the light of his cigar, I recognised Cipollina.
"Well!" he called to me, "what do you say to that?"