Misery! There could not be more than thirteen sous left!
To get as elevated as one ought, and to avenge himself on the life
of the moment, he would certainly need--damn'ation--a liter and a
half, In this place, a liter of red ordinary costs twenty-one sous.
It won't go.
His eyes wander around him in the darkness, looking for some one.
Perhaps there is a pal somewhere who will lend him money, or stand
him a liter.
But who--who? Not Becuwe, he has only a marraine [note 1:]
who sends him tobacco and note-paper every fortnight. Not Barque,
who would not toe the line; nor Blaire, the miser--he wouldn't
understand. Not Biquet, who seems to have something against him; nor
Pepin who himself begs, and never pays, even when he is host.
Ah, if Volpatte were there! There is Mesnil Andre, but he is
actually in debt to Fouillade on account of several drinks round.
Corporal Bertrand? Following on a remark of Fouillade's, Bertrand
told him to go to the devil, and now they look at each other
sideways. Farfadet? Fouillade hardly speaks a word to him in the
ordinary way. No, he feels that he cannot ask this of Farfadet. And
then--a thousand thunders!--what is the use of seeking saviors in
one s imagination? Where are they, all these people, at this hour?
Slowly he goes back towards the barn. Then mechanically he turns and
goes forward again, with hesitating steps. He will try, all the
same. Perhaps he can find convivial comrades.
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