"Heaven
protect thee, my comrade!" faltered Pitou. "Is thy vocabulary safely in
thy pocket? Remember that 'un bock' is 'glass of beer.'"
"Here is a small packet of chocolate," murmured Lajeunie, embracing
him; "in England, nothing to eat can be obtained on Sunday, and
chocolate is very sustaining."
"And listen!" shouted Sanquereau; "on no account take off thy hat to
strangers, nor laugh in the streets; the first is 'mad' over there, and
the second is 'immoral.' May le bon Dieu have thee in His keeping! We
count the hours till thy return!"
Then the train sped out into the night, and the poet realised that home
and friends were left behind.
He would have been less than a poet if, in the first few minutes, the
pathos of the situation had not gripped him by the throat. Vague,
elusive fancies stirred his brain; he remembered the franc that he owed
at the Cafe du Bel Avenir, and wondered if madame would speak gently of
him were he lost at sea. Tender memories of past loves dimmed his eyes,
and he reflected how poignant it would be to perish before the papers
would give him any obituary notices. Regarding his fellow passengers,
he lamented that none of them was a beautiful girl, for it was an
occasion on which woman's sympathy would have been sweet; indeed he
proceeded to invent some of the things that they might have said to
each other. Inwardly he was still resenting the faces of his travelling
companions when the train reached Dieppe.
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