As five o'clock draws near, in spite of all, Fouillade begins again
to intoxicate himself with his dream of wine, and he waits, with its
gleam in his soul. What time is it?--A quarter to five.--Five
minutes to five.--Now!
He is outside in black night. With great splashing skips he makes
his way towards the tavern of Magnac, the generous and communicative
Biterrois. Only with great trouble does he find the door in the dark
and the inky rain. By God, there is no light! Great God again, it is
closed! The gleam of a match that his great lean hand covers like a
lamp-shade shows him the fateful notice--"Out of Bounds." Magnac,
guilty of some transgression, has been banished into gloom and
idleness!
Fouillade turns his back on the tavern that has become the prison of
its lonely keeper. He will not give up his dream. He will go
somewhere else and have vin ordinaire, and pay for it, that's all.
He puts his hand in his pocket to sound his purse; it is there.
There ought to be thirty-seven sous in it, which will not run to the
wine of Prou, but--
But suddenly he starts, stops dead, and smites himself on the
forehead. His long-drawn face is contracted in a frightful grimace,
masked by the night. No, he no longer has thirty-seven sous, fool
that he is! He has forgotten the tin of sardines that he bought the
night before--so disgusting did he find the dark macaroni of the
soldiers' mess--and the drinks he stood to the cobbler who put him
some nails in his boots.
Pages:
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188