imagination. At other times he would think he smelt
smoke and would ransack the place from garret to
cellar, shivering because of his horror of fire — sup-
posing they should burn him alive as a spy? Such a
thing might occur at a time of war-madness. Getting
back into bed he would start to think while still
hearing those sounds and still smelling that burning;
amazing how acute his perceptions had become, and
all able to function at once — amazing. Hark! Was
that someone at the front door . . . ? He had told
Hermitte that he was an Alsatian, he distinctly
remembered having told the fool; then why did not
Hermitte come out and say so? An Alsatian he was.
All the days of his childhood had been passed on his
father's farm in Alsace; he could see the house now,
a poor sort of shack surrounded by poor, unproductive
acres. Curse that smell, it had got itself into his nose;
yes, but where did it come from? that was the question!
Why had he thought that it gave him importance to
wrap himself round with a cloak of mystery? Why, oh
why, had he been so secretive, so careful never to
answer their questions? He might have told them
about that farm, and about the time that had followed
in Paris when at last he had climbed to comparative
success, had amassed quite a tidy bundle of savings.
Savings? Where were they now . . . they were
gone. . . . Surely that was a strange sound near the
window? A sly sound like someone smothering a
cough ... a sly, choking sound . . . over there
near the window. But why had he invented that
ridiculous yarn about having come to Saint Loup for
his throat? Never in his life had he had tonsilitis.
He had told Madame Roustan that ridiculous yarn.
Had she believed it? Very probably not, in which
case^she had doubtless resented the lie and was only
waiting to do him a mischief. And why had he ruined
Benedit, why had he not been more patient, more
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