“They only give their blessed badge to dukes and peers, I know,” he reflected. “The Brécés are overrun with Americans and Jewesses, and I’m as good as they any day!”
He threw his peeled potato angrily into the cauldron, at which Private Cocot, with a big laugh and a big oath, cried out:
“There he goes, upsetting the broth, damn him!”
And Briqueballe, who was a simple soul, and of the same year, made merry at the jest. He rejoiced, too, at the thought that he would soon see his father, who was a harness-maker at Cayeux, and his home again.
“That old hypocrite Guitrel will do nothing for me,” thought Private Bonmont. “He is a clever chap is Guitrel, cleverer than I ever thought. He has made his own conditions. So long as he is not bishop he will not say anything to his friends, the Brécés. He is a deep beggar, and no mistake!”
“Bonmont,” said Briqueballe, “stop chucking the peelings into the pot!”
“It’s a dirty trick!” said Cocot.
“I’m not on duty this week,” objected Bonmont.
Thus spoke these three men because they were on an equal footing.
Bonmont went on thinking: