"What's the corporal thinking of to starve us? There he is--I'll go
and get hold of him. Hey, corporal! Why can't you get us something
to eat?"--"Yes, yes--something to eat!" re-echoes the destiny of
these eternally hungry men.
"I'm coming," says bustling Bertrand, who keeps going both day and
night.
"What then?" says Pepin, always hot-headed. "I don't feel
like chewing macaroni again; I shall open a tin of meat in less than
two secs?" The daily comedy of dinner steps to the front again in
this drama.
"Don't touch your reserve rations!" says Bertrand; "as soon as I'm
back from seeing the captain I'll get you something."
When he returns he brings and distributes a salad of potatoes and
onions, and as mastication proceeds our features relax and our eyes
become composed.
For the ceremony of eating, Paradis has hoisted a policeman's hat.
It is hardly the right place or time for it, but the hat is quite
new, and the tailor, who promised it for three months ago, only
delivered it the day we came up. The pliant two-cornered hat of
bright blue cloth on his flourishing round head gives him the look
of a pasteboard gendarme with red-painted cheeks. Nevertheless, all
the while he is eating, Paradis looks at me steadily. I go up to
him. "You've a funny old face."
"Don't worry about it," he replies. "I want a chat with you. Come
with me and see something."
His hand goes out to his half-full cup placed beside his dinner
things; he hesitates, and then decides to put his wine in a safe
place down his gullet, and the cup in his pocket.
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