At
last Jean took to his couch in utter misery and disgust. The rest of _les
hommes_ descended as usual for the promenade--not so Jean. He ate nothing
for supper. That evening not a sound issued from his bed.
Next morning he awoke with a broad grin, and to the salutations of Lulu!
replied, laughing heartily at himself "FEENEESH Loo Loo." Upon which the
tormentors (finding in him no longer a victim) desisted; and things
resumed their normal course. If an occasional Lulu! upraised itself, Jean
merely laughed, and repeated (with a wave of his arm) "FEENEESH."
Finished Lulu seemed to be.
But _un jour_ I had remained upstairs during the promenade, both because
I wanted to write and because the weather was worse than usual.
Ordinarily, no matter how deep the mud in the _cour_, Jean and I would
trot back and forth, resting from time to time under the little shelter
out of the drizzle, talking of all things under the sun. I remember on
one occasion we were the only ones to brave the rain and slough--Jean in
paper-thin soled slippers (which he had recently succeeded in drawing
from the Gestionnaire) and I in my huge _sabots_--hurrying back and forth
with the rain pouring on us, and he very proud. On this day, however, I
refused the challenge of the mud.
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