"It's the canteen," B. said. We rose, spoon in
hand and breadhunk stuck on spoon, and made our way to the lady. I had,
naturally, no money; but B. reassured me that before the day was over I
should see the Gestionnaire and make arrangements for drawing on the
supply of ready cash which the _gendarmes_ who took me from Gre had
confided to The Surveillant's care; eventually I could also draw on my
account with Norton-Harjes in Paris; meantime he had _quelques sous_
which might well go into chocolate and cigarettes. The large lady had a
pleasant quietness about her, a sort of simplicity, which made me
extremely desirous of complying with B.'s suggestion. Incidentally I was
feeling somewhat uncertain in the region of the stomach, due to the
unique quality of the lunch which I had just enjoyed, and I brightened at
the thought of anything as solid as chocolate. Accordingly we purchased
(or rather B. did) a _paquet jaune_ and a cake of something which was not
Meunier. And the remaining _sous_ we squandered on a glass apiece of red
acrid _pinard_, gravely and with great happiness pledging the hostess of
the occasion and then each other.
With the exception of ourselves hardly anyone patronized the canteen,
noting which I felt somewhat conspicuous.
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