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.