none; and as there was no clean spot anywhere to put anything down
in that universal streaming of earth and sky, he thrust his towel
into the waistband of his trousers, while the soap went back into
his pocket every time he used it.

They who still remained wondered at this heroic gesticulation in the
face of adversity, and said again, as they wagged their heads, "It's
a disease of cleanliness he's got."

"You know he's going to be carpeted, they say, for that affair of
the shell-hole with Volpatte." And they mixed the two exploits
together in a muddled way, that of the shell-hole, and the present,
and looked on him as the hero of the moment, while he puffed,
sniffled, grunted, spat, and tried to dry himself under the
celestial shower-bath with rapid rubbing and as a measure of
deception; then at last he resumed his clothes.

* * * * * *

After his wash, Fouillade feels cold. He turns about and stands in
the doorway of the barn that shelters us. The arctic blast discolors
and disparages his long face, so hollow and sunburned; it draws
tears from his eyes, and scatters them on the cheeks once scorched
by the mistral; his nose, too, weeps increasingly.

Yielding to the ceaseless bite of the wind that grips his ears in
spite of the muffler knotted round his head, and his calves in spite
of the yellow puttees with which his cockerel legs are enwound, he
reenters the barn, but comes out of it again at once, rolling
ferocious eyes, and muttering oaths with the accent one hears in