The woman throws him a
surly glance, and makes as if to hand Lamuse's bottle back to him.
But Lamuse, launched upon the hope of drinking wine at last, so that
his cheeks redden as if the draught already pervaded them with its
grateful hue, hastens to intervene--
"Don't be afraid--it's between ourselves, la mere, we won't
give you away."
She raves on, rigid and bitter, against the limited price on wine;
and, overcome by his lusty thirst, Lamuse extends the humiliation
and surrender of conscience so far as to say, "No help for it,
madame! It's a military order, so it's no use trying to understand
it."
She leads us into the store-room. Three fat barrels occupy it in
impressive rotundity. "Is this your little private store?"
"She knows her way about, the old lady," growls Barque.
The shrew turns on her heel, truculent: "Would you have me ruin
myself by this miserable war? I've about enough of losing money all
ways at once."
"How?" insists Barque.
"I can see you're not going to risk your money!"
"That's right--we only risk our skins."
We intervene, disturbed by the tone of menace for our present
concern that the conversation has assumed. But the door of the
wine-cellar is shaken, and a man's voice comes through. "Hey,
Palmyra!" it calls.
The woman hobbles away, discreetly leaving the door open. "That's
all right--we've taken root!" Lamuse says.
"What dirty devils these, people are!" murmurs Barque, who finds his
reception hard to stomach.
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