Then by instinct they give themselves up to the only occupation possible to them in there—­to walk up and down on the spot, and thus ward off anchylosis.

So they begin to walk quickly to and fro in the scanty place that three strides might compass; they turn about and cross and brush each other, bent forward, hands pocketed—­tramp, tramp.  These human beings whom the blast cuts even among their straw are like a crowd of the wretched wrecks of cities who await, under the lowering sky of winter, the opening of some charitable institution.  But no door will open for them—­unless it Le four days hence, one evening at the end of the rest, to return to the trenches.

Alone in a corner, Cocon cowers.  He is tormented by lice; but weakened by the cold and wet he has not the pluck to change his linen; and he sits there sullen, unmoving—­and devoured.

As five o’clock draws near, in spite of all, Fouillade begins again to intoxicate himself with his dream of wine, and he waits, with its gleam in his soul.  What time is it?—­A quarter to five.—­Five minutes to five.—­Now!

He is outside in black night.  With great splashing skips he makes his way towards the tavern of Magnac, the generous and communicative Biterrois.  Only with great trouble does he find the door in the dark and the inky rain.  By God, there is no light!  Great God again, it is closed!  The gleam of a match that his great lean hand covers like a lamp-shade shows him the fateful notice—­“Out of Bounds.”  Magnac, guilty of some transgression, has been banished into gloom and idleness!

Fouillade turns his back on the tavern that has become the prison of its lonely keeper.  He will not give up his dream.  He will go somewhere else and have vin ordinaire, and pay for it, that’s all.  He puts his hand in his pocket to sound his purse; it is there.  There ought to be thirty-seven sous in it, which will not run to the wine of Prou, but—­

But suddenly he starts, stops dead, and smites himself on the forehead.  His long-drawn face is contracted in a frightful grimace, masked by the night.  No, he no longer has thirty-seven sous, fool that he is!  He has forgotten the tin of sardines that he bought the night before—­so disgusting did he find the dark macaroni of the soldiers’ mess—­and the drinks he stood to the cobbler who put him some nails in his boots.

Misery!  There could not be more than thirteen sous left!

To get as elevated as one ought, and to avenge himself on the life of the moment, he would certainly need—­damn’ation—­a liter and a half, In this place, a liter of red ordinary costs twenty-one sous.  It won’t go.

His eyes wander around him in the darkness, looking for some one.  Perhaps there is a pal somewhere who will lend him money, or stand him a liter.