"Nonsense, it can't be true! Dreher who never stirs a foot."
"It's about time he took his turn," said Humel.
Never mind! I quite thought I should succeed in disarming them partially.
At the same time I judged it expedient to tighten the bonds between us, the four old pupils. I busied myself about it without much success.
Frémont was the pleasant comrade he had always been. But in voice and gesture and outlook he still retained a certain something which was extraordinarily infantile, and rather took one aback. He was extremely young in mind too. A Doctor of Science at the age of twenty-three and an honours man he took no interest in anything outside his speciality. He was particularly unresponsive on the subjects of art and philosophy which I was particularly fond of discussing.
Besides he was living in a dream. Though present at every parade, he deserved every time—as Guillaumin threatened him, with a laugh—to be reported as absent.
"Oh, these young husbands!"
He waited until the regulation time to go out, but then he lost no time in getting through the gate. His wife had come to fetch him, and they went off arm in arm. One met nobody but them in town, all evening. Why couldn't they shut themselves up? I knew they had hired a room. Yes, Guillaumin explained to me, but they did not have the use of it till eight o'clock. Poor lovers! The fact remains that their idyl, in a fair way to become the talk of the whole regiment, got on my nerves!
As for De Valpic, it must be admitted that he was rather an eccentric being. His manners were perfection. On coming into contact with him one felt that he was unusually cultured, not to say, erudite. He would embark on a discussion with great gusto ... but it would suddenly come to a premature close. He used to pretend to give way suddenly before your arguments. I say pretend because you felt that he had others in reserve. Was it the disdain of a great gentleman for our bourgeois dialectics? The supposition warred with his entire absence of side. But I had nevertheless to adhere to it. He so carefully avoided all attempts to force his intimacy. It was impossible to persuade him to take a meal with us. And yet he could hardly be called a sybarite when he dined at the best hotel in the place. He professed to be on a special diet. Was he ill? Perhaps. As a matter of fact he did not look very robust.... I questioned him discreetly. He reddened and got out of it by answering vaguely:
"Digestion!..."