Through the yard gate that opens on to the road we see a group of
poilus strolling, nose in air, devouring the sunshine; and then, all
alone, Tellurure. In the middle of the street he oscillates the
prosperous abdomen of which he is proprietor, and rocking on legs
arched like basket-handles, he expectorates in wide abundance all
around him.
"We thought, too, that we should be as badly off here as in the
other quarters. But this time it's real rest, both in the time it
lasts and the kind it is."
"You're not given too many exercises and fatigues."
"And between whiles you come in here to loll about."
The old man huddled up at the end of the seat--no other than the
treasure-seeking grandfather whom we saw the day of our
arrival--came nearer and lifted his finger. "When I was a young
man, I was thought a lot of by women," he asserted, shaking his
head. "I have led young ladies astray!"
"Ah!" said we, heedless, our attention taken away from his senile
prattle by the timely noise of a cart that was passing, laden and
laboring.
"Nowadays," the old man went on, "I only think about money."
"Ah, oui, the treasure you're looking for, papa."
"That's it," said the old rustic, though he felt the skepticism
around him. He tapped his cranium with his forefinger, which he then
extended towards the house. "Take that insect there," he said,
indicating a little beast that ran along the plaster. "What does it
say? It says, 'I am the spider that spins the Virgin's thread.
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