"Don't worry about the table," Barque exclaims. "Tenez! there, put
away in that corner, the old door; that would make us a table."
"You're not going to trail me about and upset all my work!" replies
the cardboard woman suspiciously, and with obvious regret that she
had not chased us away immediately.
"Don't worry, I tell you. Look, I'll show you. Hey, Lamuse, old
cock, give me a hand."
Under the displeased glances of the virago we place the old door on
a couple of barrels.
"With a bit of a rub-down," says I, "that will be perfect."
"Eh, oui, maman, a flick with a brush'll do us instead of
tablecloth."
The woman hardly knows what to say; she watches us spitefully:
"There's only two stools, and how many are there of you?"
"About a dozen."
"A dozen. Jesus Maria!"
"What does it matter? That'll be all right, seeing there's a plank
here--and that's a bench ready-made, eh, Lamuse?"
"Course," says Lamuse.
"I want that plank," says the woman. "Some soldiers that were here
before you have tried already to take it away."
"But us, we're not thieves," suggests Lamuse gently, so as not to
irritate the creature that has our comfort at her disposal.
"I don't say you are, but soldiers, vous savez, they smash
everything up. Oh, the misery of this war!"
"Well then, how much'll it be, to hire the table, and to heat up a
thing or two on the stove?"
"It'll be twenty sous a day," announces the hostess with restraint,
as though we were wringing that amount from her.
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