Out of this bundle of yellowed and darkened papers Volpatte extracts
this photograph and shows it to me once more. I renew acquaintance
with Madame Volpatte and her generous bosom, her mild and mellow
features; and with the two little boys in white collars, the elder
slender, the younger round as a ball.
"I've only got photos of old people," says Biquet, who is twenty
years old. He shows us a portrait holding it close to the candle, of
two aged people who look at us with the same well-behaved air as
Volpatte's children.
"I've got mine with me, too," says another; "I always stick to the
photo of the nestlings."
"Course! Every man carries his crowd along," adds another.
"It's funny," Barque declares, "a portrait wears itself out just
with being looked at. You haven't got to gape at it too often, or be
too long about it; in the long run, I don't know what happens, but
the likeness mizzles."
"You're right," says Blaire, "I've found it like that too,
exactly.''
"I've got a map of the district as well, among my papers," Volpatte
continues. He unfolds it to the light. Illegible and transparent at
the creases, it looks like one of those window-blinds made of
squares sewn together.
"I've some newspaper too"--he unfolds a newspaper article upon
poilus--"and a book"--a twopence-half-penny novel, called Twice a
Maid--"Tiens, another newspaper cutting from the Etampes Bee. Don't
know why I've kept that, but there must be a reason somewhere.
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