“Preparations! What preparations?” cried Tom in a tone of indignant surprise. “You need a portmanteau and a few shirts and stockings, and you have an hour before you to get them together, and that’s more than time enough. Come, now, George, no childishness; if you defer your departure for two or three days, you know just as well as I do that you won’t go at all. I’ve no need to tell you what influences will be brought to bear on you, what obstacles will rise up before you, to unman you and break down your resolution. Believe me, my dear fellow, in such cases as this, however you yourself may suffer and _make_ suffer, you _must_ cut down to the quick or give up....” “Once more you are right, Tom,” said Dupuis after a moment’s silent thought. “I’m your man; there’s my hand on it.” “Marianne!” shouted Rouvière, shaking his friend’s hand with a will. “No, no, don’t call Marianne,” cried Dupuis hurriedly, and getting between Rouvière and the door. “I know better than she does what I shall need. I shall pack my portmanteau myself as soon as my wife comes in. It’s just eight now,” looking at the clock; “she’ll not be long. Well,” he continued with some agitation, “I shall have to pass a few minutes—sad ones they will be, I know—but my conscience reproaches me with nothing; ... and after all, if my cup be filled with generous wine, what does it matter though the edge be a little bitter?... O Tom!” he continued after a moment’s pause, during which he seemed to have roused his courage, “what a perspective you have opened out before me—what a horizon! Granada! Venice! Naples! It is a dream!” He glanced at the clock and his voice fell. “Five minutes past eight! I would willingly give twenty-five louis to be a quarter of an hour older—a quarter of an hour! I know that I am very weak, but....” “Shall I tell your wife for you?” interrupted Rouvière, who was watching him anxiously. “Well, frankly, Tom, you would do me a service,” cried Dupuis eagerly. “Go and pack your trunk, then, and I’ll settle the business.” “There’s no danger of a scene,” said George, stopping short near the door; “you would be quite mistaken in your estimate of her character if you feared that.” “I shall see,” returned his friend laconically. “Tell her that I entreat her to keep calm. Tears might unman me, but could change nothing in my plans.” “I’ll tell her. Go to your trunk.” “I’m going, Tom.” He opened the door, hesitated, then closed it again and came back to the fireplace, near which Rouvière was still standing. “My dear friend,” said he softly, laying his hand on Tom’s arm, “you will be very gentle with her, will you not?” A kind smile gleamed in the usually cold, sharp eyes of the traveller, as he looked in his friend’s anxious, agitated face. “Don’t be afraid,” he replied; “but you—don’t you desert me when I’ve gone to the front.” “Desert during the battle! You don’t know me, Tom!” “Why, you see,” said Tom, “I should look wondrous silly if you did!”