After that, there was nothing to do but to flee, flee, as far as the
places where there are no more men who think and reason.
Morhange, appeared, his arm resting on the Major's, who was beaming
over this new acquaintanceship.
He presented him enthusiastically:
"Captain Morhange, gentlemen. An officer of the old school, and a man
after our own hearts, I give you my word. He wants to leave tomorrow,
but we must give him such a reception that he will forget that idea
before two days are up. Come, Captain, you have at least eight days to
give us."
"I am at the disposition of Lieutenant de Saint-Avit," replied
Morhange, with a quiet smile.
The conversation became general. The sound of glasses and laughter
rang out. I heard my comrades in ecstasies over the stories that the
newcomer poured out with never-failing humor. And I, never, never have
I felt so sad.
The time came to pass into the dining-room.
"At my right, Captain," cried the Major, more and more beaming. "And I
hope you will keep on giving us these new lines on Paris. We are not
up with the times here, you know."
"Yours to command, Major," said Morhange.
"Be seated, gentlemen."
The officers obeyed, with a joyous clatter of moving chairs. I had not
taken my eyes off Morhange, who was still standing.
"Major, gentlemen, you will allow me," he said.
And before sitting down at that table, where every moment he was the
life of the party, in a low voice, with his eyes closed, Captain
Morhange recited the Benedicite.