The parrot squawked out a sentence that Andrews did not understand. Andrews heard the old man's voice answer from somewhere behind him: “Nom de Dieu!” The parrot squawked again. Rosaline laughed. “It's the old man who taught him that,” she said. “Poor Coco, he doesn't know what he's saying.” “What does he say?” asked Andrews. “'Les bourgeois a la lanterne, nom de dieu!' It's from a song,” said Rosaline. “Oh, qu'il est malin, ce Coco!” Rosaline was standing with her arms folded beside the bunk. The parrot stretched out his neck and rubbed it against her cheek, closing and unclosing his gem-like eyes. The girl formed her lips into a kiss, and murmured in a drowsy voice: “Tu m'aimes, Coco, n'est-ce pas, Coco? Bon Coco.” “Could I have something more, I'm awfully hungry,” said Andrews. “Oh, I was forgetting,” cried Rosaline, running off with the empty bowl. In a moment she came back without the parrot, with the bowl in her hand full of a brown stew of potatoes and meat. Andrews ate it mechanically, and handed back the bowl. “Thank you,” he said, “I am going to sleep.” He settled himself into the bunk. Rosaline drew the covers up about him and tucked them in round his shoulders. Her hand seemed to linger a moment as it brushed past his cheek. But Andrews had already sunk into a torpor again, feeling nothing but the warmth of the food within him and a great stiffness in his legs and arms. When he woke up the light was grey instead of yellow, and a swishing sound puzzled him. He lay listening to it for a long time, wondering what it was. At last the thought came with a sudden warm spurt of joy that the barge must be moving. He lay very quietly on his back, looking up at the faint silvery light on the ceiling of the bunk, thinking of nothing, with only a vague dread in the back of his head that someone would come to speak to him, to question him. After a long time he began to think of Genevieve Rod. He was having a long conversation with her about his music, and in his imagination she kept telling him that he must finish the “Queen of Sheba,” and that she would show it to Monsieur Gibier, who was a great friend of a certain concert director, who might get it played. How long ago it must be since they had talked about that. A picture floated through his mind of himself and Genevieve standing shoulder to shoulder looking at the Cathedral at Chartres, which stood up nonchalantly, above the tumultuous roofs of the town, with its sober tower and its gaudy towers and the great rose windows between. Inexorably his memory carried him forward, moment by moment, over that day, until he writhed with shame and revolt. Good god! Would he have to go on all his life remembering that? “Teach him how to salute,” the officer had said, and Handsome had stepped up to him and hit him. Would he have to go on all his life remembering that?