Everywhere we are in the way. We
go forward, we scatter, we retire in the turmoil.
"In addition, I tell you," continues Cocon, tranquil as a scientist,
"there are the Divisions, each organized pretty much like an Army
Corps--"
"Oui, we know it; miss the deal!"
"He makes a fine to-do about it all, that mountebank in the
horse-box on casters. What a mother-in-law he'd make!"
"I'll bet that's the Major's wrong-headed horse, the one that the
vet said was a calf in process of becoming a cow."
"It's well organized, all the same, all that, no doubt about it,"
says Lamuse admiringly, forced back by a wave of artillerymen
carrying boxes.
"That's true," Marthereau admits; "to get all this lot on the way,
you've not got to be a lot of turnip-heads nor a lot of
custards--Bon Dieu, look where you're putting your damned boots, you
black-livered beast!"
"Talk about a flitting! When I went to live at Marcoussis with my
family, there was less fuss than this. But then I'm not built that
way myself."
We are silent; and then we hear Cocon saying, "For the whole French
Army that holds the lines to go by--I'm not speaking of those who
are fixed up at the rear, where there are twice as many men again,
and services like the ambulance that cost nine million francs and
can clear you seven thousand cases a day--to see them go by in
trains of sixty coaches each, following each other without stopping,
at intervals of a quarter of an hour, it would take forty days and
forty nights.
Pages:
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137