"Oh, the echoing steps, the whitewashed corridors, the smelly dormitory, the belts to be polished, the slab of bread, the tins of polish, the iron bedsteads with grey covers, the gleaming rifles in the rack.
"Oh, the good days with the corps, the cards that stick to your fingers, the hideous queen of spades with her feathered charms, the old newspaper, pages missing, scattered on the beds….
"Oh, the long nights on guard at the Ministry's door, the old sentry box which rains in, the frozen feet!… The carriages which splash you going past!… Oh, the extra fatigues, the days without break, the stinking wash tub, the wooden pillow, the reveille on cold, wet mornings, the retreat in fog and at lights on time, the evening call-out that finds you late and breathless!
"Oh, the bois de Vincennes, the thick, white, cotton gloves, the walks on the fortifications…. Oh, the Military School entrance, the loose women, the sound of the cornet at the Salon de Mars, the absinth in the bars, the shared secrets between hiccoughs, the sabres drawn, the sentimental tale told hand on heart…."
* * * * *
Dream on, poor man! I won't be the one to stop you…. Hit your drum and hit it hard, hit it as hard as you can. I have no right to ridicule you.
So, you are nostalgic for your barracks; am I not just as nostalgic for mine?
My Paris haunts me just like yours. You—you play your drum among the pines. Me—I write here…. What a right pair of Provencal people we are. Back in Paris, we miss our Alpilles and the smell of wild lavender. Right here and right now, bang in the middle of Provence, we miss our barracks, and everything that reminds us of it is so dear to us!…
* * * * *
Eight o'clock strikes in the village. Pistolet, drumsticks at the ready, starts on his way back…. He can be heard, playing non-stop, coming down from the woods…. Me—I lie down in the grass, overwhelmed with nostalgia. As the drum fades into the distance, All my own familiar Paris passes before my eyes, there amongst the pines….