Under Fire: The Story of a Squad. Henri Barbusse

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СКАЧАТЬ door over there. Forward!

      Near the yellow door, we encounter a shape down-bent. Blaire, his foot on a milestone, is reducing the bulk of his boot with his knife, and plaster-like debris is falling fast. He might be engaged in sculpture.

      "You never had your feet so white before," jeers Barque. "Rotting apart," says Blaire, "you don't know where it is, that special van?" He goes on to explain: "I've got to look up the dentist-van, so they can grapple with my ivories, and strip off the old grinders that's left. Oui, seems it's stationed here, the chop-caravan."

      He folds up his knife, pockets it, and goes off alongside the wall, possessed by the thought of his jaw-bones' new lease of life.

      Once more we put up our beggars' petition: "Good-day, madame; you haven't got a little corner where we could feed? We would pay, of course, we would pay—"

      Through the glass of the low window we see lifted the face of an old man—like a fish in a bowl, it looks—a face curiously flat, and lined with parallel wrinkles, like a page of old manuscript.

      "You've the little shed there."

      "There's no room in the shed, and when the washing's done there—"

      Barque seizes the chance. "It'll do very likely. May we see it?"

      "We do the washing there," mutters the woman, continuing to wield her broom.

      "You know," says Barque, with a smile and an engaging air, "we're not like those disagreeable people who get drunk and make themselves a nuisance. May we have a look?"

      The woman has let her broom rest. She is thin and inconspicuous. Her jacket hangs from her shoulders as from a valise. Her face is like cardboard, stiff and without expression. She looks at us and hesitates, then grudgingly leads the way into a very dark little place, made of beaten earth and piled with dirty linen.

      "It's splendid," cries Lamuse, in all honesty.

      "Isn't she a darling, the little kiddie!" says Barque, as he pats the round cheek, like painted india-rubber, of a little girl who is staring at us with her dirty little nose uplifted in the gloom. "Is she yours, madame?"

      "And that one, too?" risks Marthereau, as he espies an over-ripe infant on whose bladder-like cheeks are shining deposits of jam, for the ensnaring of the dust in the air. He offers a half-hearted caress in the direction of the moist and bedaubed countenance. The woman does not deign an answer.

      So there we are, trifling and grinning, like beggars whose plea still hangs fire.

      Lamuse whispers to me, in a torment of fear and cupidity, "Let's hope she'll catch on, the filthy old slut. It's grand here, and, you know, everything else is pinched!"

      "There's no table," the woman says at last.

      "Don't worry about the table," Barque exclaims. "Tenez! there, put away in that corner, the old door; that would make us a table."

      "You're not going to trail me about and upset all my work!" replies the cardboard woman suspiciously, and with obvious regret that she had not chased us away immediately.

      "Don't worry, I tell you. Look, I'll show you. Hey, Lamuse, old cock, give me a hand."

      Under the displeased glances of the virago we place the old door on a couple of barrels.

      "With a bit of a rub-down," says I, "that will be perfect."

      "Eh, oui, maman, a flick with a brush'll do us instead of tablecloth."

      The woman hardly knows what to say; she watches us spitefully: "There's only two stools, and how many are there of you?"

      "About a dozen."

      "A dozen. Jesus Maria!"

      "What does it matter? That'll be all right, seeing there's a plank here—and that's a bench ready-made, eh, Lamuse?"

      "Course," says Lamuse.

      "I want that plank," says the woman. "Some soldiers that were here before you have tried already to take it away."

      "But us, we're not thieves," suggests Lamuse gently, so as not to irritate the creature that has our comfort at her disposal.

      "I don't say you are, but soldiers, vous savez, they smash everything up. Oh, the misery of this war!"

      "Well then, how much'll it be, to hire the table, and to heat up a thing or two on the stove?"

      "It'll be twenty sous a day," announces the hostess with restraint, as though we were wringing that amount from her.

      "It's dear," says Lamuse.

      "It's what the others gave me that were here, and they were very kind, too, those gentlemen, and it was worth my while to cook for them. I know it's not difficult for soldiers. If you think it's too much, it's no job to find other customers for this room and this table and the stove, and who wouldn't be in twelves. They're coming along all the time, and they'd pay still more, if I wanted. A dozen!—"

      Lamuse hastens to add, "I said 'It's dear,' but still, it'll do, eh, you others?" On this downright question we record our votes.

      "We could do well with a drop to drink," says Lamuse. "Do you sell wine?"

      "No," said the woman, but added, shaking with anger, "You see, the military authority forces them that's got wine to sell it at fifteen sous! Fifteen sous! The misery of this cursed war! One loses at it, at fifteen sous, monsieur. So I don't sell any wine. I've got plenty for ourselves. I don't say but sometimes, and just to oblige, I don't allow some to people that one knows, people that knows what things are, but of course, messieurs, not at fifteen sous."

      Lamuse is one of those people "that knows what things are." He grabs at his water-bottle, which is hanging as usual on his hip. "Give me a liter of it. That'll be what?"

      "That'll be twenty-two sous, same as it cost me. But you know it's just to oblige you, because you're soldiers."

      Barque, losing patience, mutters an aside. The woman throws him a surly glance, and makes as if to hand Lamuse's bottle back to him. But Lamuse, launched upon the hope of drinking wine at last, so that his cheeks redden as if the draught already pervaded them with its grateful hue, hastens to intervene—

      "Don't be afraid—it's between ourselves, la mere, we won't give you away."

      She raves on, rigid and bitter, against the limited price on wine; and, overcome by his lusty thirst, Lamuse extends the humiliation and surrender of conscience so far as to say, "No help for it, madame! It's a military order, so it's no use trying to understand it."

      She leads us into the store-room. Three fat barrels occupy it in impressive rotundity. "Is this your little private store?"

      "She knows her way about, the old lady," growls Barque.

      The shrew turns on her heel, truculent: "Would you have me ruin myself by this miserable war? I've about enough of losing money all ways at once."

      "How?" insists Barque.

      "I can see you're not going to risk your money!"

      "That's right—we only risk our skins."

      We intervene, disturbed by the tone of menace for СКАЧАТЬ