--Roadmender, him? Do you think they'll let him stop
so?' 'Certain sure,' replies one of the cowardly milksops. 'A
road-mender's job is for a long time.'
"Talk about idiots," Marthereau growls.
"And they were all jealous, I don't know why, of a chap called
Bourin. Formerly he moved in the best Parisian circles. He lunched
and dined in the city. He made eighteen calls a day, and fluttered
about the drawing-rooms from afternoon tea till daybreak. He was
indefatigable in leading cotillons, organizing festivities,
swallowing theatrical shows, without counting the motoring parties,
and all the lot running with champagne. Then the war came. So he's
no longer capable, the poor boy, of staying on the look-out a bit
late at an embrasure, or of cutting wire. He must stay peacefully in
the warm. And then, him, a Parisian, to go into the provinces and
bury himself in the trenches! Never in this world! 'I realize, too,'
replied an individual, 'that at thirty-seven I've arrived at the age
when I must take care of myself!' And while the fellow was saying
that, I was thinking of Dumont the gamekeeper, who was forty-two,
and was done in close to me on Hill 132, so near that after he got
the handful of bullets in his head, my body shook with the trembling
of his."
"And what were they like with you, these thieves?"
"To hell with me, it was, but they didn't show it too much, only now
and again when they couldn't hold themselves in.
Pages:
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165