His shoes scuffed gravel; mud took the place of gravel; he walked with his hands stuffed in his pockets. The one friendly thing was his pocket knife, given by his mother, small, agate-covered knife. Somehow, he had been able to keep it. Something rustled alongside the road, a field mouse in a heap of leaves. Was that its home? Home? Shall I return to the Rondes? No. No, Jeannette ... no ... Keep walking. Thirsty, hungry ... keep walking. If it rains, keep walking. If you get tired, keep walking. When it was dark he was still walking. Somewhere in the night he heard a man’s voice. He could not identify the speaker at first. "Is it worthwhile?" the voice asked. "What?" "The mess you’re in." "No." "Does she still play Debussy?" "Who?" "Your mother." "Now and then." "Chopin?" "Some." "Why don’t you go AWOL?" "Shall I?" "What’s she doing in Ithaca?" "Teaching French." "And you’re going back to her?" "To war." "I saw you at my grave. Join me! You still have your rifle in your room." Did he sound like that? Orville asked himself. Pausing, standing in the dark road, he saw the Renault cross a field, its turret gun lowered, the treads silent, the motor noiseless ... inside the tank, a blond face, a face with blood smeared on it ... a silent shell exploded. The Renault slumped behind a hedge. Smoke rose. Orville approached an inn and opened the partly open door: the room was friendly, like a rustic pub, with a stone fireplace at the far end and a bar jutting out at an angle, cutting off part of the room. A fire roared and the firelight labelled liquor bottles and a collection of miniatures on a series of shelves. A police dog barked at Orville but a young woman shooed him away with a broom, laughing. She invited Orville to sit down, and at the same moment farmers tramped in and gathered around a table, talking loudly, their shoes and clothes smelling of manure. One of them demanded a deck of cards and began removing his black leather jacket. An odor of lamb mixed with garlic attacked the smell of manure: Orville was amused as he sat alone, watching. He hoped he might get some country fare and thought of remaining overnight, if they had a room that was clean enough. Clean ... of course it must be clean, he ridiculed himself, remembering the tanks, the war. The young girl was drying her hands on a towel, as she stood by the farmers. The men stared at Orville, eyes and gestures showing their antagonism. The big fire in the fireplace interested Orville more than the farmers: its bigness was a welcome; the heat too was welcome. He was eyeing the fire when the girl asked him if he wanted some wine. "Some wine ... something to eat?" "What are you serving? Do you have Chablis ... I want something to eat ... wine with my meal." She thought him well dressed: what’s he doing here? Where’s he from? No jeep or car. "We’ve mutton stew," she muttered. "What else?" "Roast beef."