“Upon my word, I am almost sick enough of life to do it,” the lieutenant said in a conversational tone. “Well, don’t forget to run upstairs and take that packet with you before you go,” said Peyrol as before. “But don’t wait for me, I am not sick of life. I am _disparu_, and that’s good enough. There’s no need for me to die.” And at last he moved in his seat, swung his head from side to side as if to make sure that his neck had not been turned to stone, emitted a short laugh, and grumbled: “_Disparu!_ Hein! Well, I am damned!” as if the word “vanished” had been a gross insult to enter against a man’s name in a register. It seemed to rankle, as Lieutenant Réal observed with some surprise; or else it was something inarticulate that rankled, manifesting itself in that funny way. The lieutenant, too, had a moment of anger which flamed and went out at once in the deadly cold philosophic reflection: “We are victims of the destiny which has brought us together.” Then again his resentment flamed. Why should he have stumbled against that girl or that woman, he didn’t know how he must think of her, and suffer so horribly for it? He who had endeavoured almost from a boy to destroy all the softer feelings within himself. His changing moods of distaste, of wonder at himself and at the unexpected turns of life, wore the aspect of profound abstraction, from which he was recalled by an outburst of Peyrol’s, not loud but fierce enough. “No,” cried Peyrol, “I am too old to break my bones for the sake of a lubberly soldier in Paris who fancies he has invented something clever.” “I don’t ask you to,” the lieutenant said, with extreme severity, in what Peyrol would call an epaulette-wearer’s voice. “You old sea-bandit. And it wouldn’t be for the sake of a soldier anyhow. You and I are Frenchmen after all.” “You have discovered that, have you?” “Yes,” said Réal. “This morning, listening to your talk on the hillside with that English corvette within one might say a stone’s throw.” “Yes,” groaned Peyrol. “A French-built ship!” He struck his breast a resounding blow. “It hurts one there to see her. It seemed to me I could jump down on her deck single-handed.” “Yes, there you and I understood each other,” said the lieutenant. “But look here, this affair is a much bigger thing than getting back a captured corvette. In reality it is much more than merely playing a trick on an admiral. It’s a part of a deep plan, Peyrol! It’s another stroke to help us on the way towards a great victory at sea.” “Us!” said Peyrol. “I am a sea-bandit and you are a sea-officer. What do you mean by us?” “I mean all Frenchmen,” said the lieutenant. “Or, let us say simply France, which you too have served.” Peyrol, whose stone-effigy bearing had become humanized almost against his will, gave an appreciative nod and said: “You’ve got something in your mind. Now what is it? If you will trust a sea-bandit.”