“Whatever you choose, so long as I have work to do. I shall make a mess of it at first, but you can show me and I’ll do better soon. You see, I’m anxious to work, I’m no more of a fool than you are, and it seems to me that I can do whatever you do. So you’ll give me some work, will you?”
“Sacretié! Monsieur Pertrand, do you mean it?”
“Why, yes; I want to do something; I am tired of sitting all day with my arms folded; so I’ll fold my legs, that will be a change. Is it agreed?”
“Ja, Monsieur Pertrand.”
“That’s good; but not a word of this before my master, or I’ll begin my apprenticeship by sewing up your tongue.”
“I won’t say ein wort.”
That same evening, as soon as Dalville had gone out, Bertrand went down to the concierge’s quarters, and, seating himself in a small room behind the lodge, went to work with great zeal. At first the ex-corporal had much ado to use a needle, and he frequently thrust it into his finger; but when Schtrack said: “You’ve hurt yourself, mein friend!” Bertrand rejoined: “Don’t you suppose a bayonet hurt more than that?”
Bertrand passed a large part of the day at work and sometimes he worked very late. By dint of application, he began to make himself useful; he earned very little, but he hoped to become more skilful in time.
Auguste had no suspicion of anything; he was rarely at home and never inquired what Bertrand was doing. But, when he looked at his faithful companion, he noticed that his eyes were very red and that he had a tired look.
“You’re not sick, are you, my friend?” he asked.