What abashed him most was Wiebel's manners. When the latter drank Diederich's health with a graceful bow, Diederich would almost collapse—the strain giving his face a tortured expression—spill one half of his drink and choke himself with the other. Wiebel spoke with the soft, insolent voice of a feudal lord. "You may say what you will," he was fond of remarking, "good form is not a vain illusion."
When he pronounced the letter "f" in form, he contracted his mouth until it looked like a small, dark mousehole, and emitted the sound slowly and broadly. Every time Diederich was thrilled by so much distinction. Everything about Wiebel seemed exquisite to him: his reddish moustache which grew high up on his lip and his long, curved nails, which curled downwards, not upward as Diederich's did; the strong masculine odour given out by Wiebel, his prominent ears, which heightened the effect of his narrow skull, and the cat-like eyes deeply set in his face. Diederich had always observed these things with a wholehearted feeling of his own unworthiness. But, since Wiebel had spoken to him, and become his protector, Diederich felt as if his right to exist had now been confirmed. If he had had a tail he would have wagged it gratefully. His heart expanded with happy admiration. If his wishes had dared to soar to such heights, he would also have liked to have such a red neck and to perspire constantly. What a dream to be able to whistle like Wiebel.
It was now Diederich's privilege to serve him; he was his fag. He was always in attendance when Wiebel got up, and got his things for him. As Wiebel was not in the good graces of the landlady, because he was irregular with his rent, Diederich made his coffee and cleaned his boots. In return, he was taken everywhere. When Wiebel wanted privacy Diederich went on guard outside, and he only wished he had his sword with him in order to shoulder it.
Wiebel would have deserved such an attention. The honour of the corps, in which Diederich's honour and his whole con-
