"Ah, my boy, there are times when
I've just got to hold myself back with a hook," came the strained
and gloomy tones, while the blood flushed to the fleshy parts of his
cheeks and neck. "She's so beautiful, she's--and me I'm--she's so
unlike--you'll have noticed it, surely, you that notices--she's a
country girl, oui; eh bien, she's got a God knows what that's better
than a Parisienne, even a toffed-up and stylish Parisienne, pas?
She--as for me, I--"
He puckered his red eyebrows. He would have liked to tell me all the
splendor of his thoughts, but he knew not the art of expressing
himself, so he was silent. He remained alone in his voiceless
emotion, as always alone.
We went forward side by side between the rows of houses. In front of
the doors, drays laden with casks were drawn up. The front windows
blossomed with many-hued heaps of jam-pots, stacks of tinder
pipe-lighters--everything that the soldier is compelled to buy.
Nearly all the natives had gone into grocery. Business had been
getting out of gear locally for a long time, but now it was booming.
Every one, smitten with the fever of sum-totals and dazzled by the
multiplication table, plunged into trade.
Bells tolled, and the procession of a military funeral came out. A
forage wagon, driven by a transport man, carried a coffin wrapped in
a flag. Following, were a detachment of men, an adjutant, a padre,
and a civilian.
"The poor little funeral with its tail lopped off!" said Lamuse.
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