relations with Jan seemed unhappy and strained, since
he dared not reveal the thoughts that obsessed him —
what ^Eliana had failed to achieve, he would some-
times imagine that the war was achieving. But Jan
was finding himself again, and for this, at least, there
was cause to be thankful; yet Jan was less his than ever
before in their lives — or so it appeared to Christophe.
A great sadness began to take hold upon him,
together with a curious sense of detachment. He
moved like a stranger among the men who, in their
turn, regarded him as a stranger. They did not dis-
like him, but rather it was that they found them-
selves ill at ease in his presence.
'C'est un original/ they would say, and shrugging
their shoulders would leave it at that, for they felt
little interest and no resentment.
He grew homesick and longed for the things he
knew: the cuckoo clock that Anfos had broken; the
workshop with its scarred, familiar bench; the
Virgin's picture that hung in his attic. And faces: the
preoccupied face of his mother as she bent to some
everyday household duty; the face of Anfos with its
anxious brown eyes that reminded him of the eyes of
Mireio; the face of his father, quiet, resigned; yes,
and even the wizened old face of Eusebe. And clothes:
he would want to take off his tunic and return to his
sleeveless, striped cotton jersey, to his patched linen
trousers grown limp with age; above all he would *
want to return to his sandals, for the army boots
frequently tired his feet — he would find their weight
unendurably irksome. Yet when he received a letter
from home in his mother's laborious, childish hand-
writing, he would read it dully, since all that she
wrote would but emphasize his sense of detachment.
Marie would send every item of news that she
thought could be of the slightest interest: his father
was neither better nor worse. Loup had made up his
442