"Good-bye, Michel."
He held out his broad wrinkled hand to me. To my surprise, it was shaking.
I had opened the door part way, and was on the point of going out, when he drew me back. I suddenly saw his face, with its white beard, bending over me. He kissed me. It was, I think, the first time for ten years.
"Fight well!"
"I promise you I will."
I went quickly down the steps feeling quite staggered. Hardly had I reached the bottom, when I recovered myself. I asked myself, mockingly, whether I had not been affected by the traditional emotion?
A little, I admitted.
But I had the decency not to scoff at it openly.