"And the 375th, too, nine weeks!" replies Barque, in a tone of
challenge.

"I think we shall stay here at least as long--at least, I say."

"We could finish the war here all right."

Barque is affected by the words, nor very far from believing them.
"After all, it will finish some day, what!"

"After all!" repeat the others.

"To be sure, one never knows," says Paradis. He says this weakly,
without deep conviction. It is, however, a saying which leaves no
room for reply. We say it over again, softly, lulling ourselves with
it as with an old song.

* * * * * *

Farfadet rejoined us a moment ago. He took his place near us, but a
little withdrawn all the same, and sits on an overturned tub, his
chin on his fists.

This man is more solidly happy than we are. We know it well, and he
knows it well. Lifting his head he has looked in turn, with the same
distant gaze, at the back of the old man who went to seek his
treasure, and at the group that talks of going away no more. There
shines over our sensitive and sentimental comrade a sort of personal
glamour, which makes of him a being apart, which gilds him and
isolates him from us, in spite of himself, as though an officer's