handsome and silky beard and who talks so much and so well--he has
little in common with Lamuse, the fat peasant of Poitou, whose
cheeks and neck are like underdone beef. The suburban accent of
Barque, whose long legs have scoured the streets of Paris in all
directions, alternates with the semi-Belgian cadence of those
Northerners who came from the 8th Territorial; with the sonorous
speech, rolling on the syllables as if over cobblestone, that the
144th pours out upon us; with the dialect blown from those ant-like
clusters that the Auvergnats so obstinately form among the rest. I
remember the first words of that wag, Tirette, when he arrived--"I,
mes enfants, I am from Clichy-la-Garenne! Can any one beat
that?"--and the first grievance that Paradis brought to me, "They
don't give a damn for me, because I'm from Morvan!"

* * * * * *

Our callings? A little of all--in the lump. In those departed days
when we had a social status, before we came to immure our destiny in
the molehills that we must always build up again as fast as rain and
scrap-iron beat them down, what were we? Sons of the soil and
artisans mostly. Lamuse was a farm-servant, Paradis a carter.
Cadilhac, whose helmet rides loosely on his pointed head, though it
is a juvenile size--like a dome on a steeple, says Tirette--owns
land. Papa Blaire was a small farmer in La Brie. Barque, porter and
messenger, performed acrobatic tricks with his carrier-tricycle
among the trains and taxis of Paris, with solemn abuse (so they say)
for the pedestrians, fleeing like bewildered hens across the big
streets and squares. Corporal Bertrand, who keeps himself always a
little aloof, correct, erect, and silent, with a strong and handsome
face and forthright gaze, was foreman in a case-factory. Tirloir