Just an acquaintance. They were people inhabiting different worlds, with ideas, tastes, and natures absolutely dissimilar. Ivan by his magic had drawn them together, but he had not united them. Indeed, now that Ivan was gone, El Kobir felt a vague antagonism towards Jacques. Jacques had divided them. This rascal of a Jacques had done a fine thing no doubt in parting with the child he was so fond of, for the child's sake--all the same, he had taken the child away. It was after dark and the swaying lamp was lit in the shop when Jacques came back. "Well," he said, "it's done, and they leave to-morrow for Oran. They made me stay for a while and talk----" "And the child?" asked El Kobir. "The child's as pleased as they are. He ran into the old woman's arms directly they met, and called her grandmama. He does not know he's going away for good--anyway, there he is quite happy. Happier than I've ever seen him." El Kobir heaved a sigh. Then he went off into the back premises and returned with a bundle. It was the uniform of the Corporal of the légionnaires, little _képi_ and all. "These are yours," said he, "you had better take them back to the man who made them. Your Legion is a légionnaire the less now." Jacques unrolled the things, looked at the blue coat and red trousers, the sash and the belt, then as we close the pages of a story, he folded them together, put them under his arm, and with the _képi_ swinging by the chin-strap to his finger, bade good-night to the old man and went off to the barracks. MANSOOR They were coming back from the rifle butts in the blaze of the late afternoon sun, Jacques walking beside Corporal Kandorff. The roofs and minarets of Sidi-bel-Abbès showed beyond the barracks, swimming in the heat-shaken air, whilst on the tepid wind blowing in their faces came the scents of the desert and the smell of the town. You can smell Sidi-bel-Abbès half a league off, the perfume of the yellow city is as distinctive as the perfume of a marigold, and as unforgettable. Camels, negroes, jasmine flowers, caporal tobacco and the old, old yellow earth of the ramparts all lend a trace of themselves to form a scent the very recollection of which brings up the bugles of the Legion, the domes of the city, and the cry of the muezzins from the minarets of the mosques. Jacques was thirsty, and as he tramped along beside Kandorff he was abusive towards the universe in general. When he was short of money he was always like that, and lately he had been very short of money, reduced to borrowing a few halfpence that morning from Kandorff--fifteen centimes, and they were spent.