open the door
for us and stands amazed. We salute her, and I say loud enough to be
heard by her:

"I say, do you know, they are not very amiable at that commissariat; the
fat one specially received us only more or less civilly."

The sister breathes not a word. We run at a gallop for the messroom; it
was time, I heard the voice of Sister Angele who was distributing the
rations. I went to bed as quickly as possible, I covered with my hand a
spot my beauty had given me the length of my neck; the sister looks at
me, finds in my eyes an unwonted sparkle, and asks with interest: "Are
your pains worse?"

I reassure her and reply: "On the contrary, sister, I am better; but
this idleness and this imprisonment are killing me."

When I speak of the appalling ennui that is trying me, sunk in this
company, in the midst of the country, far from my own people, she does
not reply, but her lips close tight, her eyes take on an indefinable
expression of melancholy and of pity. One day she said to me in a dry
tone: "Oh, liberty's worth nothing to you," alluding to a conversation
she had overheard between Francis and me, discussing the charming
allurements of Parisian women; then she softened and added with her
fascinating little moue: "You are really not serious, Mr. Soldier."

The next morning we agreed, the painter and I, that as soon as the soup
was swallowed, we would scale the wall again. At the time appointed we
prowl about the field; the door is closed. "Bast, worse luck!"
says Francis, "_En avant!_" and he turns toward the great door of the
hospital. I follow him. The sister in charge asks where we are going.
"To the commissariat." The door opens, we are outside.

Arrived at the grand square of the town, in front of the church,
I perceive, as we contemplate the sculptures of the porch, a stout
gentleman with a face like a red moon bristling with white mustaches,
who stares at us in astonishment. We stare back at him, boldly, and
continue on our way. Francis is dying of thirst; we enter a cafe, and,
while sipping my demi-tasse, I cast my eyes over the local paper, and
I find there a name that sets me dreaming. I did not know, to tell the
truth, the person who bore it, but that name recalled to me memories
long since effaced. I remembered that one of my friends had a relation
in a very high position in the town of Evreux. "It is absolutely
necessary for me to see him," I say to the painter; I ask his address of
the cafe-kee