We drank to the health of our relations with much feeling; examining myself stealthily in a looking-glass, I decided--I was a little heated--that I already had a martial air about me. "Are you a corporal, anyhow?" the doctor asked me. "Sergeant." Half-past eight struck, I got up. "Oh! how I should like to pack for you!" said my cousin. We embraced. They entrusted me with many friendly messages for my father, whom they had not seen for ten years, and went with me as far as the railings, where the last farewells were said. As I went away, I heard the doctor murmur: "The beginning of the bad times." And my cousin: "Poor boy!" These words bore me company. I thought involuntarily that in this separation from people who loved me, and perhaps the only ones who loved me, there must be something deep and heart-rending, of which I was still unconscious, but which one day would fill me with emotion. CHAPTER V A MEDITATION AT THE WINDOW I clambered down the side of the mountain, and then walked quickly along the road to Ballaigues. The night was serene. A dog was howling in the valley, a harsh bark which sufficed to hold my attention. It was only when I had got back on to Swiss territory that I thought of the risk I had run of being arrested as a deserter. I had cut through the woods. Dead branches cracked under my feet. I crushed a glow worm. At last I made out the hotel lights. My heart bounded when I reached it, I don't know what I expected. There was nobody in the corner of the terrace where we generally gossiped, the Landrys and I. I bowed to the old Portuguese ladies who were enjoying the evening air. From the hall I saw the English installed phlegmatically at their poker table in the smoking-room. A solemn and inscrutable waiter passed me, carrying a tea tray. Nothing abnormal struck me. I wondered whether they knew. I went down on to the terrace again. A silhouette rose from the shadows. By the light of his cigar, I recognised Cipollina. "Well!" he called to me, "what do you say to that?" "I can't believe it yet!" In so saying I ingeniously betrayed my dominant feeling. He offered me a cigarette, and said quickly: "Shall we take a turn?" I was going to agree to doing so when I suddenly thought of my preparations; and I was seized with the vain idea of guarding against future fatigue. "Thanks," I said, "I've got my packing to do. What about you?" I understood him to say he had finished. I continued: "Are you going by my train?" "What train?" "The 6:50, if it still exists. The Paris Express." He was silent. "Are you going to rejoin soon?" He shook his head abruptly and exclaimed: "Not I!" I looked at him; I understood. He went on in an aggressive tone: "You won't catch me going to be knocked on the head, when I've the luck to be out of it! And you, are you itching for it, Dreher?" "Yes, I'm going back," I said.