Abandoning his uniform, he put on his old clothes, his sabots and his leather apron, and for ten long days the hammer beat incessantly upon the anvil.
Sometimes between strokes he would look up and smile, calling out:
"Why, they won't even give me time to catch a mess of fish, or go to see my grandmother at Paray!"
There is always some tool to be repaired, a last horse to be shod.
"What do you know about this for a furlough! And every time it's the same old story."
The others, all those whom I have seen return from the front, do exactly as did Maxence.
Pushing open the gate, they embrace their pale and trembling wives, cuddle the children in their arms, and then five minutes later one can see Jean or Pierre, clothed in his working suit, seized and subjected by the laws of his tradition.
Sunday though, the whole family must go to Mass. The careful housewife has brushed and cleaned the faded uniform, burnished the helmet, put new laces in the great thick-soled shoes. The children cling to their father, proud of his warlike appearance. Then afterwards, of course, there are many hands to be shaken, but no extraordinary effusions are manifested.
"Ah, home at last, old man!"
"You're looking splendid. When did you get here?"