Monsieur Segotin's Story
as usual when the war broke out. But that town too had quickly fallen into German hands, and no inquiries could be made there. As for his sister who lived in England I never thought of her. I had forgotten that she existed. And so I resigned myself to ignorance of M. Segotin's fate, until better times should make it possible for me to attempt to get some information about it.
Conceive, then, my pleasure when the other day (to be precise, upon the 3rd of May, 1917, at a few minutes before seven—such joyful dates should be well remembered) I ran into the old gentleman in Shaftesbury Avenue. I uttered so loud a shout of surprise and gladness that every passer-by within a hundred yards turned to see what was happening. Little cared I for their curiosity. With one hand already I was pump-handling M. Segotin's arm and patting him on the back with the other. Next moment I had run him into the Monico, plumped him down on a divan, and ordered a dinner of the best. Then only I had leisure properly to examine my capture.
Except that his hair, which used to be grey, was now all white, and that his face was thinner and had more lines in it than formerly, he was in no way changed. Four years, however, had elapsed since we had met, and so much time might well account for these signs of advancing age. It was only when I looked into his eyes that I saw what he had been through; but that which I saw not eternity itself would be long enough alone to set there.
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