n as somewhat in the light of
the natural prey of the soldier.

In Paris it was another thing. One could not plunder prettily, sword by
side and revolver in hand, far from civil authority. He felt in his
heart all the instincts of a sub-officer let loose in a conquered
country. He certainly regretted his two years in the desert. What a pity
he had not stopped there. But, then, he had hoped something better in
returning home. And now--ah! yes, it was very nice now, was it not?

He clicked his tongue as if to verify the parched state of his palate.

The crowd swept past him slowly, and he kept thinking. "Set of hogs--all
these idiots have money in their waistcoat pockets." He pushed against
people and softly whistled a lively tune. Gentlemen whom he thus elbowed
turned grumbling, and women murmured: "What a brute!"

He passed the Vaudeville Theater and stopped before the American cafe,
asking himself whether he should not take his bock, so greatly did
thirst torture him. Before making up his mind, he glanced at the
illuminated clock. It was a quarter past nine. He knew himself that as
soon as the glassful of beer was before him he would gulp it down. What
would he do then up to eleven o'clock?

He passed on. "I will go as far as the Madeleine," he said, "and walk
back slowly."

As he reached the corner of the Palace de l'Opera, he passed a stout
young fellow, whose face he vaguely recollected having seen somewhere.
He began to follow him, turning over his recollections and repeating to
himself half-aloud: "Where the deuce did I know that joker?"

He searched without being able to recollect, and then all at once, by a
strange phenomenon of memory, the same man appeared to him thinner,
younger, and clad in a hussar uniform. He exclaimed aloud: "What,
Forestier!" and stepping out he tapped the other on the shoulder. The
promenader turned round and looked at him, and then said: "What is it,
sir?"

Duroy broke into a laugh. "Don't you know me?" said he.

"No."

"George Duroy, of the 6th Hussars."

Forestier held out his hands, exclaiming: "What, old fellow! How are
you?"

"Very well, and you?"

"Oh, not very brilliant! Just fancy, I have a chest in brown paper now.
I cough six months out of twelve, through a cold I caught at Bougival
the year of my return to Paris, four years ago."

And Forestier, taking his old comrade's arm, spoke to him of his
illness, related the consultations, opinions, and advice of the