He approaches the
central part of the village just when night has buried the earth.
The lighted doors and windows of the taverns shine again in the mud
of the main street. There are taverns every twenty paces. One dimly
sees the heavy specters of soldiers, mostly in groups, descending
the street. When a motor-car comes along, they draw aside to let it
pass, dazzled by the head-lights, and bespattered by the liquid mud
that the wheels hurl over the whole width of the road.
The taverns are full. Through the steamy windows one can see they
are packed with compact clouds of helmeted men. Fouillade goes into
one or two, on chance. Once over the threshold, the dram-shop's
tepid breath, the light, the smell and the hubbub, affect him with
longing. This gathering at tables is at least a fragment of the past
in the present.
He looks from table to table, and disturbs the groups as he goes up
to scrutinize all the merrymakers in the room. Alas, he knows no
one! Elsewhere, it is the same; he has no luck. In vain he has
extended his neck and sent his desperate glances in search of a
familiar head among the uniformed men who in clumps or couples drink
and talk or in solitude write. He has the air of a cadger, and no
one pays him heed.
Finding no soul to come to his relief, he decides to invest at least
what he has in his pocket. He slips up to the counter. "A pint of
wine--and good."
"White?"
"Eh, oui."
"You, mon garcon, you're from the South," says the landlady,
handing him a little full bottle and a glass, and gathering his
twelve sous.
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