Surplice was, as usual, very interested,
enormously interested. So were we: for the names respectively belonged to
Monsieur Auguste, Monsieur Pet-airs, The Wanderer, Surplice and The
Spoonman. These men had been judged. These men were going to Precigne.
These men would be _prisoniers pour la duree de la guerre_.
I have already told how Monsieur Pet-airs sat with the frantically
weeping Wanderer writing letters, and sniffing with his big red nose, and
saying from time to time: "Be a man, Demestre, don't cry, crying does no
good."--Monsieur Auguste was broken-hearted. We did our best to cheer
him; we gave him a sort of Last Supper at our bedside, we heated some red
wine in the tin cup and he drank with us. We presented him with certain
tokens of our love and friendship, including--I remember--a huge cheese
... and then, before us, trembling with excitement, stood Surplice--
We asked him to sit down. The onlookers (there were always onlookers at
every function, however personal, which involved Food or Drink) scowled
and laughed. _Le con, surplice, chaude pisse_--how could he sit with men
and gentlemen? Surplice sat down gracefully and lightly on one of our
beds, taking extreme care not to strain the somewhat capricious mechanism
thereof; sat very proudly; erect; modest but unfearful.
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