I cried for a quarter of an hour just as if my child were dead
... and it is seldom I weep over horses--I say: you are going, Jewel, _au
r'oir et bon jour._" ...
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,
_ou--ou? 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 .
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