Marcelle and Claudine met them at the door of the old house. Their arms were laden with champagne bottles. The interior of the dwelling belied its cold, grey, ancient stones. Hugo did not remember much of what followed that evening. Short, unrelated fragments stuck in his mind—Shayne chasing the white form of Marcelle up and down the stairs; himself in a huge bath-tub washing a back in front of him, his surprise when he saw daylight through the wooden shutters of the house.

Someone was shaking him. “Come on, soldier. The leave’s up.”

He opened his eyes and collected his thoughts. He grinned at Shayne. “All right. But if I had to defend myself right now—I’d fail against a good strong mouse.”

“We’ll fix that. Hey! Marcelle! Got any Fernet-Branca?”

The girl came with two large glasses of the pick-me-up. Hugo swallowed the bitter brown fluid and shuddered. Claudine awoke. “Chéri!” she sighed, and kissed him.

They sat on the edge of the bed. “Boy!” Hugo said. “What a binge!”

“You like eet?” Claudine murmured.

He took her hand. “Loved it, darling. And now we’re going to war.”

“Ah!” she said, and, at the door: “Bonne chance!”

Shayne left Hugo, after agreeing on a time and place for their meeting in the afternoon. The hours passed slowly. Hugo took another drink, and then, exerting his judgment and will, he refrained from taking more. At noon he partook of a light meal. He thought, or imagined, that the ecstasy of the day before was showing some signs of decline. It occurred to him that the people might be very sober and quiet before the war was a thing to be written into the history of France.

The sun was shining. He found a place in the shade where he could avoid it. He ordered a glass of beer, tasted it, and forgot to finish it. The elation of his first hours had passed. But the thing within him that had caused it was by no means dead. As he sat there, his muscles tensed with the picturization of what was soon to be. He saw the grim shadows of the enemy. He felt the hot splash of blood. For one suspended second he was ashamed of himself, and then he stamped out that shame as being something very much akin to cowardice.