My laughter surprised the older considerably. He would have been more
astonished had I yielded to the well-nigh irrepressible inclination,
which at the moment suffused me, to clap him heartily upon the back.

Everything was _blague_. The driver, the cafe, the police, the morning,
and least and last the excellent French Government.

We had walked for a half hour or more. My guide and protector now
inquired of a workingman the location of the _boucheries_? "There is one
right in front of you," he was told. Sure enough, not a block away. I
laughed again. It was eight years all right.

The older bought a great many things in the next five minutes: sausage,
cheese, bread, chocolate, _pinard rouge_. A _bourgeoise_ with an
unagreeable face and suspicion of me written in headlines all over her
mouth served us with quick hard laconicisms of movement. I hated her and
consequently refused my captor's advice to buy a little of everything (on
the ground that it would be a long time till the next meal), contenting
myself with a cake of chocolate--rather bad chocolate, but nothing to
what I was due to eat during the next three months. Then we retraced our
steps, arriving at the station after several mistakes and inquiries, to
find the younger faithfully keeping guard over my two _sacs_ and
overcoat.

The older and I sat down, and the younger took his turn at promenading. I
got up to buy a Fantasio at the stand ten steps away, and the older
jumped up and escorted me to and from it. I think I asked him what he
would read? and he said "Nothing." Maybe I bought him a journal. So we
waited, eyed by everyone in the Gare, laughed at by the officers and