s always! On his huge face, where every passing
day now leaves some marks, on his round-eyed weakened face with its
mouth opened like a cypher, the old smile of yore is spread out. I
used to think then that resignation was a virtue; I see now that it is
a vice. The optimist is the permanent accomplice of all evil-doers.
This passive smile which I admired but lately--I find it despicable on
this poor face.

* * * * * *

The cafe has filled up with workmen, either old or very young, from the
town and the country, but chiefly the country.

What are they doing, these lowly, these ill-paid? They are dirty and
they are drinking. They are dark, although it is the forenoon, because
they are dirty. In the light there is that obscurity which they carry
on them; and a bad smell removes itself with them.

I see three convalescent soldiers from the hospital join the plebeian
groups; they are recognized by their coarse clothes, their caps and big
boots, and because their gestures are soldered together and conform to
a common movement.

By force of "glasses all round," these drinkers begin to talk in loud
voices; they get excited and shout at random; and in the end they drop
visibly into unconsciousness, into oblivion, into defeat.

The wine-merchant is at his cash desk, which shines like silver. He
stands behind the center of it, colorless, motionless, like a bust on a
pedestal. His bare arms hang down, pallid as his face. He comes and
wipes away some spilled wine, and his hands shine and drip, like a
butcher's.

* * * * * *

"I'm forgetting to tell you," cried Crillon, "that they had news of
your regiment a few days ago. Little Melusson's had his head blown to
bits in an attack. Here, y'know; he was a softy and an idler. Well,
he was attacking like a devil. War remakes men like that!"

"Termite?" I asked.

"Ah, yes! Termite the poacher! Why it's a long time since they
haven't seen him. Disappeared, it seems. S'pose he's killed."

Then he talks to me of this place. Brisbille, for instance, always the
same, a Socialist and a scandal.

"There's him," says Crillon, "and that dangerous chap Eudo as well,
with his notorient civilities. Would you believe it, they've not been
able to pinch him for his spying proclensities! Nothing in his past
life, nothing in his conductions, nothing in his expensiture, nothing
to find fault with. Mustn