“Never fight under me,” the Colonel said. “I’m cagey. But I’m not lucky. Napoleon wanted them lucky and he was right.”
“We’ve had some luck.”
“Yes,” the Colonel said. “Good and bad.”
“But it was all luck.”
“Sure,” the Colonel said. “But you can’t fight on luck. It is just something that you need. The people who fought on luck are all gloriously dead like Napoleon’s horse cavalry.”
“Why do you hate cavalry? Almost all the good boys I know were in the three good regiments of cavalry, or in the navy.”
“I don’t hate anything, Daughter,” the Colonel said, and drank a little of the light, dry, red wine which was as friendly as the house of your brother, if you and your brother are good friends. “I only have a point of view, arrived at after careful consideration, and an estimate of their capabilities.”
“Are they not really good?”
“They are worthless,” the Colonel said. Then, remembering to be kind, added, “In our time.”
“Every day is a disillusion.”
“No. Every day is a new and fine illusion. But you can cut out everything phony about the illusion as though you would cut it with a straight-edge razor.”
“Please never cut me.”
“You’re not cut-able.”
“Would you kiss me and hold me tight, and we both
