The times when it did not rain we passed in long conversations on the hillside, under a plantation of pines and beech trees. My young friend perceived and judged natural objects with the innocence, freshness and originality of a child. He spoke of his scattered family with a stubborn faith in their safety--a faith that usually is found only in religious fanatics or in men unbalanced by fame or success. In the evening, when the approach of darkness tended to bring back to the mind the awful things one had experienced and made one withdraw into oneself, he used cheerfully to ask me to have a game of chess, and this game of skill took us on to the threshold of sleep. * * * * * The pleasure I had in the company of Dauche led me one day to tell the doctor how much I admired his character. The doctor, who was ceasing to be young, was tall, rather bent and bald, with a sad, timid, and kind smile on his face half-hidden by a straggling beard. “Fate,” I said, “is no respecter of victims. It is terrible to find it striking down natures so generous, and it is a marvel that it has failed to produce worse effects than it has.” We began chatting as we walked with measured steps along a narrow pathway hidden away among the hazel trees. My companion made a queer little movement with his shoulders and looked round to make sure that we were alone. “You appear to take great pleasure in Dauche’s company,” he said to me, “and it is very natural. But I have already begged you never to prolong your walks with him too far from the Château, and I must repeat the warning.” The tone of his voice at once made me rather anxious, and I did not hide my amazement. “Dauche,” I began, “seems to me to be convalescing slowly but surely. Can there be anything serious in that scar on his forehead?” The doctor had stopped. He was trying to dislodge, with the tip of his boot, a stone embedded in the road. “This scratch,” he said very quickly, still looking down, “is very much more serious than you imagine.” A painful silence ensued, and as I remained quiet, the doctor went on, with frequent pauses: “We are beginning to understand these injuries of the skull. Your friend does not know, and must not know, how serious his condition is. He doesn’t even know that we have failed to extract the projectile which struck him. And even if the thing was possible....” Then suddenly the doctor went off into a philosophical dissertation in which he seemed to be both at his ease and at a loss, as in a familiar labyrinth.