"I am satisfied with everything," he said, abruptly. "Leave me. I have
not been in bed for two nights."

A flood of sympathy overspread Jean's face: he threw up his hands. "Poor
boy! Poor boy! What a terrible thing!" With a touch as light as a
woman's his work-worn fingers smoothed the pillow invitingly, and,
tiptoeing to the door, he disappeared in tactful and silent
comprehension of the situation.

Vaguely the boy was conscious of his departure. A great lassitude was
falling upon him, making him value the isolation of his three-franc room
with a deep gratitude, turning his gaze toward the unpromising bed with
an indescribable longing. Mechanically, as the door closed, he threw
off his heavy overcoat, kicked off his high boots, discarded his coat
and trousers, and, without waiting to search in his bag for another
garment, stepped into bed and curled himself up in the flannel shirt he
had worn all day.

The bed was uncomfortable with that extraordinary discomfort of the
old-fashioned French bed, that feels as though it were padded with
cotton wool of indescribable heaviness. The sheets were coarse, the
multitudinous clothes were weighty without being warm, but no prince on
his bed of roses ever rested with more luxury of repose than did this
young adventurer as, drawing the blankets to his chin, he stretched his
limbs with the slow, delicious enjoyment born of long travel.

Jean had drawn the cretonne curtains, but through their chinks streaks
of bluish, shadowy light presaged the coming day. From his lair the boy
looked out at these ghostly fingers of the morning, then his eyes