The vain little dancer interrupted about "broken-down horses" ... "Excuses donc—this was no disabled horse, such as goes to the front—these are some horses—pardon, whom you give eat, this, it is colie, that, the other, it's colie—this never—he could go forty kilometres a day...."
One of the strongest men I have seen in my life is crying because he has had to sell his favourite horse. No wonder les hommes in general are not interested. Someone said: "Be of good cheer, Demestre, your wife and kids are well enough."
"Yes—they are not cold; they have a bed like that" (a high gesture toward the quilt of many colours on which we were sitting, such a quilt as I have not seen since; a feathery deepness soft to the touch as air in Spring), "which is worth three times this of mine—but tu comprends, it's not hot these mornings"—then he dropped his head, and lifted it again, crying, crying.
"Et mes outils, I had many—and my garments—where are they put, où—où? Kis! And I had chemises ... this is poor" (looking at himself as a prince might look at his disguise)—"and like this, that—where?"
"Si the wagon is not sold ... I never will stay here for la durée de la guerre. No—bahsht! To resume, that is why I need...."
(more than upright in the priceless bed—the twice streaming darkness of his beard, his hoarse sweetness of voice—his immense perfect face and deeply softnesses eyes—pouring voice)
"my wife sat over there, she spoke to No one and bothered Nobody—why was my wife taken here and shut up? Had she done anything? There is a wife who fait la putain and turns, to everyone and another, whom I bring another tomorrow ... but a woman who loves only her husband, who waits for no one but her husband—"
(the tone bulged, and the eyes together)
"—Ces cigarettes ne fument pas!" I added an apology, having presented him with the package. "Why do you shell out these? They cost fifteen sous, you may spend for them
