“Rounds.”
And the officer, recognized, flashing an electric torch, passed on. The diminuendo of his footsteps was agreeable to Doggie’s ear. The rain dripped monotonously off his helmet on to his sodden shoulders, but Doggie did not mind. Now and then he strained an eye upwards to that part of the living-house that was above the gateway. Little streaks of light came downwards through the shutter slats. Now it required no great intellectual effort to surmise that the light proceeded, not from the bedroom of the invalid Madame Morin, who would naturally have the best bedroom situated in the comfortable main block of the house, but from that of somebody else. Madame Morin was therefore ruled out. So was Toinette—ridiculous to think of her keeping all night vigil. There remained only Jeanne.
It was supremely silly of him to march with super-martiality of tread up the pavement; but then, it is often the way of young men to do supremely silly things.
The next day was fuss and bustle, from the private soldier’s point of view. They were marching back to the trenches that night, and a crack company must take over with flawless equipment and in flawless bodily health. In the afternoon Doggie had a breathing spell of leisure. He walked boldly into the kitchen.
“Madame,” said he to Toinette, “I suppose you know that we are leaving to-night?”
The old woman sighed. “It is always like that. They come, they make friends, they go, and they never return.”
“You mustn’t make the little soldier weep, grand’mère,” said Doggie.
“No. It is the grand’mères who weep,” replied Toinette.
“I’ll come back all right,” said he. “Where is Mademoiselle Jeanne?”