“It seems to me, however, that In-Salah—­” I said, a little vexed.

“In-Salah?  Tidi-Kelt!  But, my poor friend, the last time that I passed that way there were as many old newspapers and empty sardine boxes as if it had been Sunday in the Wood of Vincennes.”

Such a determined, such an evident desire to annoy me made me forget my reserve.

“Evidently,” I replied resentfully, “I have never been to—­”

I stopped myself, but it was already too late.

He looked at me, squarely in the face.

“To where?” he said with good humor.

I did not answer.

“To where?” he repeated.

And, as I remained strangled in my muteness: 

“To Wadi Tarhit, do you mean?”

It was on the east bank of Wadi Tarhit, a hundred and twenty kilometers from Timissao, at 25.5 degrees north latitude, according to the official report, that Captain Morhange was buried.

“Andre,” I cried stupidly, “I swear to you—­”

“What do you swear to me?”

“That I never meant—­”

“To speak of Wadi Tarhit?  Why?  Why should you not speak to me of Wadi Tarhit?”

In answer to my supplicating silence, he merely shrugged his shoulders.

“Idiot,” was all he said.

And he left me before I could think of even one word to say.

So much humility on my part had, however, not disarmed him.  I had the proof of it the next day, and the way he showed his humor was even marked by an exhibition of wretchedly poor taste.

I was just out of bed when he came into my room.

“Can you tell me what is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

He had in his hand one of the official registers.  In his nervous crises he always began sorting them over, in the hope of finding some pretext for making himself militarily insupportable.

This time chance had favored him.

He opened the register.  I blushed violently at seeing the poor proof of a photograph that I knew well.

“What is that?” he repeated disdainfully.

Too often I had surprised him in the act of regarding, none too kindly, the portrait of Mlle. de C. which hung in my room not to be convinced at that moment that he was trying to pick a quarrel with me.

I controlled myself, however, and placed the poor little print in the drawer.

But my calmness did not pacify him.

“Henceforth,” he said, “take care, I beg you, not to mix mementoes of your gallantry with the official papers.”

He added, with a smile that spoke insult: 

“It isn’t necessary to furnish objects of excitation to Gourrut.”

“Andre,” I said, and I was white, “I demand—­”

He stood up to the full height of his stature.

“Well what is it?  A gallantry, nothing more.  I have authorized you to speak of Wadi Halfa, haven’t I?  Then I have the right, I should think—­”