Martin’s eyes were moist. “My God!” said he, with a catch in his voice, “you are a good fellow.”
“Not a bit, mon cher. We are friends, and in friendship there is something just a little bit sacred. But tell me, nom d’une pipe! all about yourself.”
“I was on my way,” said Martin, with his conscientious honesty, “from Penang to New York. At Marseilles I heard for the first time of the war in which France will be involved and of which we have so often talked. And something, I don’t know what, called me here— et me voici!”
“ C’est beau. C’est bien beau de ta part,” said Bigourdin seriously. “Let us go and find Félise.”
Now, when a Frenchman characterises a deed as beau, it is in his opinion very fine indeed.
But before they could move, Euphémie rushed from her kitchen and all but embraced
