“Thanks!  I will.  I want to wash my hands in your room.”

Lieut.  D’Hubert found the surgeon occupied in unscrewing his flute, and packing the pieces methodically in a case.  He turned his head.

“Water there—­in the corner.  Your hands do want washing.”

“I’ve stopped the bleeding,” said Lieut.  D’Hubert.  “But you had better make haste.  It’s rather more than ten minutes ago, you know.”

The surgeon did not hurry his movements.

“What’s the matter?  Dressing came off?  That’s amusing.  I’ve been at work in the hospital all day but I’ve been told this morning by somebody that he had come off without a scratch.”

“Not the same duel probably,” growled moodily Lieut.  D’Hubert, wiping his hands on a coarse towel.

“Not the same. . . .  What?  Another.  It would take the very devil to make me go out twice in one day.”  The surgeon looked narrowly at Lieut.  D’Hubert.  “How did you come by that scratched face?  Both sides, too—­and symmetrical.  It’s amusing.”

“Very!” snarled Lieut.  D’Hubert.  “And you will find his slashed arm amusing, too.  It will keep both of you amused for quite a long time.”

The doctor was mystified and impressed by the brusque bitterness of Lieut.  D’Hubert’s tone.  They left the house together, and in the street he was still more mystified by his conduct.

“Aren’t you coming with me?” he asked.

“No,” said Lieut.  D’Hubert.  “You can find the house by yourself.  The front door will be standing open very likely.”

“All right.  Where’s his room?”

“Ground floor.  But you had better go right through and look in the garden first.”

This astonishing piece of information made the surgeon go off without further parley.  Lieut.  D’Hubert regained his quarters nursing a hot and uneasy indignation.  He dreaded the chaff of his comrades almost as much as the anger of his superiors.  The truth was confoundedly grotesque and embarrassing, even putting aside the irregularity of the combat itself, which made it come abominably near a criminal offence.  Like all men without much imagination, a faculty which helps the process of reflective thought, Lieut.  D’Hubert became frightfully harassed by the obvious aspects of his predicament.  He was certainly glad that he had not killed Lieut.  Feraud outside all rules, and without the regular witnesses proper to such a transaction.  Uncommonly glad.  At the same time he felt as though he would have liked to wring his neck for him without ceremony.

He was still under the sway of these contradictory sentiments when the surgeon amateur of the flute came to see him.  More than three days had elapsed.  Lieut.  D’Hubert was no longer officier d’ordonnance to the general commanding the division.  He had been sent back to his regiment.  And he was resuming his connection with the soldiers’ military family by being shut up in close confinement, not at his own quarters in town, but in a room in the barracks.  Owing to the gravity of the incident, he was forbidden to see any one.  He did not know what had happened, what was being said, or what was being thought.  The arrival of the surgeon was a most unexpected thing to the worried captive.  The amateur of the flute began by explaining that he was there only by a special favour of the colonel.