576
PARTISAN REVIEW
"Hello! Jamblier? It's me, Marchandot. The weight is O.K.
. . . Yes, I'm sending it to you.... Goodbye."
Martin dragged himself to the telephone on the counter.
"Yes, it's me. . . . He's dead . . . he gave them back to me.
. Mind your own business."
He hung up the receiver and said to the butcher:
"I'm leaving now. Before I go, I'll ask you to let me have an
envelope and a stamp."
He took from his billfold the five thousand francs that Grandgil
had returned to him, and put them in an envelope which he ad–
dressed to J amblier.
"One more glass of wine?" proposed the butcher. "Or a spot
of brandy? I have some that's first-class."
"Thanks. Can I leave my valises here? I'll pick them up
tomorrow night between six and seven."
Martin went out without replying to the butcher's civilities. It
lacked an hour and a half till morning. The north wind whistled
sharply through the deserted streets. He walked in the full moon–
light, without fear of being seen by a policeman, without giving it a
thought. A while ago, leaving the studio with his load of four valises,
he had taken no pains to hide, and had walked along without the least
consciousness of danger in the wake of the alert which was just over.
He was still gazing at the body of the Turkish soldier, now
come to the surface of his memory. Now the corpse was alone,
stretched out on a rock isolated like an image in the mind, and
nothing around him suggested the battle in which he had fallen.
"We don't do what we wish to do," Martin repeated to himself. But
little by little, the corpse divided into two. Grandgil's body was at
first only a vague outline over that of the soldier, like the image in a
double exposure, then it slowly detached itself and became distinct.
Sometimes, by an effort, Martin succeeded in merging the two out–
lines, one over the other, but the image of Grandgil began at once
to separate itself. First the two heads, then the two torsos, became
distinct from each other. In the end there were two dead men lying
side by side, the soldier in his uniform, the painter with his dressing
gown open and
his
bloody garments showing. Grandgil was not very
frightening. Lying beside the soldier, his death seemed to be one of
the fatalities of war. "We don't do what we wish to do," thought
