"Plague take it!" he cried. "I mustn't lose a moment if I don't want to miss my train."
Vinson was dressing in Fandor's bedroom. There must have been a time when Corporal Vinson was very proud of putting on the uniform of a French soldier; but at this particular moment his feelings were the very opposite. However, he clad himself in this same uniform with lightning rapidity. Careful of his smart appearance, the corporal examined himself in the glass: the reflection was so satisfactory that he broke into smiles—undoubtedly his uniform suited him.
There was a violent ring at the door-bell. Vinson jumped: he began to tremble.
"Who can it be at this hour?" he asked himself. "I was sure something would happen! I was bound to catch it somehow!"
Vinson dared not risk a movement: he stood rigid, motionless. Whoever was at the door must be led to think that there was not a living soul in Fandor's flat.
Again the bell rang, a violent ring: it was the ring of someone who does not mean to go away, who knows that the delay in opening the door is deliberate.
"Plague take that porter!" murmured the corporal. "I'll wager."...
Again the bell rang violently.
Something had to be done. Drops of sweat rolled down the corporal's face.
"By jingo, this business is going to end very badly!"