to express them. His
state was worse than dumbness, for the dumb have resigned hope of
conversation. Gray would have liked to talk if it had not taken about
five minutes to understand each thing he said--except the refrain which
all knew by heart: '_Les Boches--ils vont en payer cher--les Boches!_'
The idea that he could work and earn his living was fantastic to those
who watched him dressing himself, or sweeping the courtyard, pausing
every few seconds to contemplate some invisible difficulty, or do over
again what he had just not done. But with that new access of strength,
or perhaps the open weather--as if Spring had come before its time--his
fixed idea governed him completely; he began to threaten to kill himself
if he could not go to work and see his uncle at Lyon; and every five
days or so he had to be brought back from far up some hill road. The
situation had become so ridiculous that the 'Powers' said in despair:
'Very well, my friend! Your uncle says he can't have you, and you can't
earn your own living yet; but you shall go and see for yourself!' And go
he did, a little solemn now that it had come to his point--in specially
bought yellow boots--he refused black--and a specially bought overcoat
with sleeves--he would have none of a _pelerine_, the arrogant civilian,
no more than of a military _capote_. For a week the hospital knew him
not. Deep winter set in two days before he went, and the whole land was
wrapped in snow. The huge, disconsolate crows seemed all the life left
in the valley, and poplar-trees against the rare blue sky were dowered
with miraculous snow-blossoms, beautiful as any blossom of Spring. And
still in the winter sun the town gossips sat on the bench under the
wall, and the cross gleamed out, and the church bell, riding high in its
whitened ironwork, tolled almost every day for the passing of some
wintered soul, and long processions, very black in the white street,
followed it, followed it--home. Then came a telegram from Gray's uncle:
'Impossible to keep Aristide (the name of the arrogant civilian), takes
the evening train to-morrow. Albert Gray.' So Jetsam was coming back!
What would he be like now that his fixed idea had failed him? Well! He
came at midday; thinner, more clay-coloured in the face, with a bad
cold; but he ate as heartily as ever, and at once asked to go to bed. At
four o'clock a 'Power,' going up to see, found him sleeping like a
child. He slept for twenty hours on end. No