"What of that?"
Nothing more had been said. But Jean had risen twice from his chair to speak to men whom he knew, conferring with them in the lobby, then returning to his wife.
"Oh, nothing will happen yet," he had said.
This had gone on for several evenings. It had become necessary to explain some things. Then Odette herself had become anxious; she would go with her husband to read the despatches; she would go to them by herself in the daytime. But the number of readers was increasing, and the silence, or the few words that would escape from the group, troubled her; she would go down to the beach to read the despatches at the Figaro kiosk. Threats of war? ... European war? ... War? ... No, surely that was not likely. The idea was finding extreme difficulty in penetrating people's skulls. Despatch was succeeding despatch, twice a day, now reassuring, now disturbing; but whenever one contained matter for alarm, it was always better founded than that of the previous day.
Odette had at last asked her husband:
"Well, if by any chance there should be war, would that affect you—yourself?"
"Don't be in a hurry, my darling; war has not yet been declared."
"But—but—if it should be?"
"Well, if it should be, I am a reserve officer."
"What is the reserve? Is it when there are no more active soldiers?"