"Ah, why should we doubt it?" His arm encouraged her. "How often we have alarmed ourselves! And always he _was_ alive. Take another sip, mignonne. It is a sound wine, hein? I should not be surprised if on the Boulevard they charge fifteen francs for such a wine." "You must go and sit down now and have your supper." "Not for a minute or two. The bouquet is so excellent I can't take my nose out of the glass. And I think I am more thirsty than hungry, after all." "Petit bonhomme, petit bonhomme," she faltered pitifully. "And why 'petit bonhomme' like that--what are you making so much of me about?" "Do you think I am blind? Do you suppose you can hide it from me? Your hands tremble and your eyes are red. As soon as you came in I saw. You have been tormenting yourself about the operation all the evening." "Mais non, mais non! If I worry, it is not about the operation, because it is a simple thing, though it sounds so big to _us_. They tell me it is an everyday affair, like having out a tooth; that was his very expression: 'Monsieur, it is no more dangerous than having out a tooth.' I worry, if I worry at all, in thinking that you are frightened. If I could only make you believe that there is nothing to be frightened of!" "I know I am a coward. I told you so. It is from _you_ that he gets his courage." "What an illusion! A fine fire-eater _I_ am! Old stick-in-the-mud!" "Ah, yes. I'm ashamed. When I think of what he is going through--how splendidly he bears it! And here am I, afraid of everything. He has no heroine for a mother." "I forbid thee to say it. He knows it is not true." "He loves me just the same. Don't you, Jean--you don't love your little mother any less?" The photograph hung too high for her. "Take it down," she pleaded. "If I could change places with thee, my son! I would find the courage for that, though I died of terror in the first hour. Ah, my little baby, my little baby! And I was so glad he was a boy!" "You are not to upset yourself," quavered Picq. "I cannot stand it. Will you be sorry he was a boy when he gets the Croix de Guerre? I make you a bet they give him that at the very least. I see you polishing it all day. Pick up your glass. To tell the truth, I have a strong presentiment, and I am not given to foolish fancies, that he comes home 'Captain.' What triumph for us--hale and hearty and a captain. Imagine it. At his age! Nanette, pick up your glass. We will paint the town red that night, and you will say you were 'always sure of it.' When I chaff you about your tremors you will declare you never had any. Mind you, I am putting it down very low; it is quite on the cards that he becomes 'Colonel.' Nanette, I entreat thee, pick up thy glass! Again a toast. Good luck, my son! We drink to your future. A bumper to our next merry meeting!" That toast reverberated to Picq when she lay sleeping and Picq was sleepless. But, at any rate, she had no suspicion so far.