In fact he had to climb part way up the
candles before he could get at the flame; at which moment he looked very
much like a weakly and fat boy (for he was obviously in his second or
fourth childhood) climbing a flag-pole. At moments of leisure he abased
his fatty whitish jowl and contemplated with watery eyes the floor in
front of his highly polished boots, having first placed his ugly clubby
hands together behind his most ample back.
Sunday: green murmurs in coldness. Surplice fiercely fearful, praying on
his bony both knees, crossing himself.... The Fake French Soldier, alias
Garibaldi, beside him, a little face filled with terror ... the Bell
cranks the sharp-nosed priest on his knees ... titter from bench of
whores--
And that reminds me of a Sunday afternoon on our backs spent with the
wholeness of a hill in Chevancourt, discovering a great apple pie, B. and
Jean Stahl and Maurice le Menusier and myself; and the sun falling
roundly before us.
--And then one _Dimanche_ a new high old man with a sharp violet face and
green hair--"You are free, my children, to achieve immortality--_Songes,
songez, donc--L'Eternite est une existence sans duree----Toujours le
Paradis, toujours L'Enfer_" (to the silently roaring whores) "Heaven is
made for you"--and the Belgian ten-foot farmer spat three times and wiped
them with his foot, his nose dripping; and the nigger shot a white oyster
into a far-off scarlet handkerchief--and the priest's strings came untied
and he sidled crablike down the steps--the two candles wiggle a strenuous
softness.
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