What was the point of being in the army, of cutting such a fine figure in his dress uniform, with his elegantly waxed mustache and his dark, piercing eyes, if not to steal away a minx like Greta from her fat clod of a husband? What chance had he of satisfying the fire that burned within such a woman, of appreciating the refinement and skill she, raised in Paris, brought to the art of lovemaking? Was it to be expected that once a month, lying on her back in a nightgown raised to her stomach while her whale of a husband thrust four or five times inside her, would quench her desires? Of course not-- and yet now here he was, fleeing to the hinterlands to escape the scandal which had engulfed them both. .....