"She will tell you herself," said Paul Guitry with a heartiness which he did not feel. The Idiot shrugged his shoulders.
"We have loved each other," he said, "even since we were little children. Do you know why I am called the Idiot? It is because I do not go with women, when I have the chance. But I don't mind. They cannot say that I am not a real man, for I have the military medal and I have been mentioned twice in the orders of the day."
To Paul Guitry, a confirmed sinner as opportunity offered, the
Idiot's statement contained much psychic meat.
"It must be," he said, "that purity tempts some men, just as impurity tempts others."
"It is even simpler," said the Idiot; but he did not explain. And there was a long silence.
Now and then Paul Guitry glanced at his companion's profile, for the night was no longer inky black. It was a simple direct young face, not handsome, but full of dignity and kindness; the line of the jaw had a certain sternness, and the wide and delicately molded nostril indicated courage and daring.
Paul Guitry thought of his wife and of his little son, of his eight days' leave, and of its consequences. He tried to imagine how he would feel, if for two years his wife had been in the hands of the Germans. Without meaning to, he spoke his thought aloud:
"Long since," he said, "I should have gone mad."
The Idiot nodded.
"They say," he said, "that in fifty years all this will be forgotten; and that we French will feel friendly toward the Germans."