Bare-footed, in
a bright chemise and one-third of his father's trousers....
Being now in a class with "_les hommes maries_" The Wanderer spent most
of the day downstairs, coming up with his little son every night to sleep
in The Enormous Room. But we saw him occasionally in the _cour_; and
every other day when the dreadful cry was raised
"_Allez, tout-le-monde, 'plicher les pommes!_" and we descended, in fair
weather, to the lane between the building and the _cour_, and in foul
(very foul I should say) the dynosaur-coloured sweating walls of the
dining-room--The Wanderer would quietly and slowly appear, along with the
other _hommes maries_, and take up the peeling of the amazingly cold
potatoes which formed the _piece de resistance_ (in guise of _Soupe_) for
both women and men at La Ferte. And if the wedded males did not all of
them show up for this unagreeable task, a dreadful hullabaloo was
instantly raised--
"_LES HOMMES MARIES!_"
and forth would more or less sheepishly issue the delinquents.
And I think The Wanderer, with his wife and children whom he loved as
never have I seen a man love anything in this world, was partly happy;
walking in the sun when there was any, sleeping with his little boy in a
great gulp of softness.
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