“These are potatoes,” said the boy, “make yourself comfortable.'' Andrews offered him a cigarette, which he took with muddy fingers. He had a broad face, red cheeks and chunky features. Reddish-brown hair escaped spikily from under a mud-spattered beret. “Where did you say you were going?” “Conflans-Ste.-Honorine. Silly all these saints, aren't they?” Andrews laughed. “Where are you going?” the boy asked. “I don't know. I was taking a walk.” The boy leaned over to Andrews and whispered in his car: “Deserter?” “No.... I had a day off and wanted to see the country.” “I just thought, if you were a deserter, I might be able to help you. Must be silly to be a soldier. Dirty life.... But you like the country. So do I. You can't call this country. I'm not from this part; I'm from Brittany. There we have real country. It's stifling near Paris here, so many people, so many houses.” “It seems mighty fine to me.” “That's because you're a soldier, better than barracks, hein? Dirty life that. I'll never be a soldier. I'm going into the navy. Merchant marine, and then if I have to do service I'll do it on the sea.” “I suppose it is pleasanter.” “There's more freedom. And the sea.... We Bretons, you know, we all die of the sea or of liquor.” They laughed. “Have you been long in this part of the country?” asked Andrews. “Six months. It's very dull, this farming work. I'm head of a gang in a fruit orchard, but not for long. I have a brother shipped on a sailing vessel. When he comes back to Bordeaux, I'll ship on the same boat.” “Where to?” “South America, Peru; how should I know?” “I'd like to ship on a sailing vessel,” said Andrews. “You would? It seems very fine to me to travel, and see new countries. And perhaps I shall stay over there.” “Where?” “How should I know? If I like it, that is.... Life is very bad in Europe.” “It is stifling, I suppose,” said Andrews slowly, “all these nations, all these hatreds, but still... it is very beautiful. Life is very ugly in America.” “Let's have something to drink. There's a bistro!” The boy jumped down from the cart and tied the horse to a tree. They went into a small wine shop with a counter and one square oak table. “But won't you be late?” said Andrews. “I don't care. I like talking, don't you?” “Yes, indeed.” They ordered wine of an old woman in a green apron, who had three yellow teeth that protruded from her mouth when she spoke. “I haven't had anything to eat,” said Andrews. “Wait a minute.” The boy ran out to the cart and came back with a canvas bag, from which he took half a loaf of bread and some cheese. “My name's Marcel,” the boy said when they had sat for a while sipping wine. “Mine is Jean...Jean Andre.” “I have a brother named Jean, and my father's name is Andre. That's pleasant, isn't it?” “But it must be a splendid job, working in a fruit orchard,” said Andrews, munching bread and cheese.