This attitude was surprising in the case of a man who had been through the strict discipline prevailing in our armed forces before 1914, when he had to address the top non-com in his troop as 'Lieutenant.' He could have no doubt about my officer's rank and he certainly knew the command that had been entrusted to me. Could his behavior spring from a special kindness toward the boy because of his youth, his weakness, his lack of everything? Perhaps, and I liked him for this kindness. But I couldn't help thinking there was something else.

I glanced at Yvon. His weariness was beginning to show in his face. Perhaps out of deference toward so kindly a host, perhaps to bestir himself a little, he ventured to put in a word, and asked M. Issarles how long he had been in the service. The farmer's eyes brightened. He looked eagerly at the boy. Well," he began, "I'll tell you."

I motioned unobtrusively to indicate that, while he was talking, I'd take the opportunity to wash up, and I left the two of them together.

While washing, I had no trouble listening to M. Issarles, He was talking freely now, though in the somewhat slow manner characteristic of that part of the country and with a rather pronounced local accent. Yet I heard occasionally certain intonations in his voice that were quite unexpected in a man of his stature and big, masculine features. I glanced discreetly at him over my shoulder and was surprised at his sudden animation and his nearly avid expression.

He was sitting at the far end of the table, leaning sideways toward the young soldier, who had his back to the fireplace and whom I could not see clearly, since his head was partly turned from me. What Issarles was saying was not particularly interesting, the usual talk of a man reliving his time of military service, but the subject matter was from the remote past before 1914 and therefore must have been unfamiliar to Yvon in many details.

—

Suddenly, I heard a woman's voice, a grave and even, rather sad voice. I don't know why, but I felt that the tall woman, dressed in black, whom I could make out in the dim light, had been standing there for some time and that she had been waiting for the first break in her husband's flow of talk before calling him. He stopped with a disgruntled look, then got up and followed Mme. Issarles into the other part of the farm building.

I called Yvon and opened the front door. It was raining as hard as ever. I suggested that he follow my example and that we add our own personal water to the endless downpour outside.

"Didn't you have to?"

"Oh yes, sir. Only it was hard to say so. M, Issarles didn't stop talking.” "All right, do it while you can. You mustn't expect to find indoor toilets in these farmhouses."

When I had shut the door, I went over and felt his clothes. Nothing had really dried, not even his shirt. We hadn't been there long enough. What time was it? Barely nine-thirty. It's true we had eaten very early. Yvon could wait a bit longer.

"Get back in front of the fire. There's no danger his coffee'll keep us awake, but the brandy's not bad."

"A bit too strong for me."

"Is it? It's a really good eau-de-vie. Distilled from plums. Quite a fruity taste."

The farmer came in again. He didn't explain where he had been or why his wife so consistently remained out of the room. He glanced at Yvon, then at me, and for the first time that evening acted in a friendly way toward me. "Sit down again, Lieutenant. How about some more of my brandy?" Thanks, I'd like some. The boy finds it too strong, but I don't." "Don't you want just a swallow, young fellow?"

"No," I said, "I'll give him a lump of sugar soaked in it. By the way, M. Issarles, I found what you were telling us a few minutes ago very interesting. About your army days. I understood you to say you were still in the service in 1914 and that you went straight to the front in that cuirassier's uniform -