"The chap that did all that had a cartload of patience," Blaire declares as he looks at the rainbow embellishments.
"In these places," Volpatte adds, "the pleasure of drinking isn't the only one."
Paradis informs us that he knows all about cafes. On Sundays formerly, he frequented cafes as beautiful as this one and even more beautiful. Only, he explains, that was a long time ago, and he has lost the flavor that they've got. He indicates a little enameled wash-hand basin hanging on the wall and decorated with flowers: "There's where one can wash his hands." We steer politely towards the basin. Volpatte signs to Paradis to turn the tap, and says, "Set the waterworks going!"
Then all six of us enter the saloon, whose circumference is already adorned with customers, and install ourselves at a table.
"We'll have six currant-vermouths, shall we?"
"We could very easily get used to it again, after all," they repeat.
Some civilians leave their places and come near us. They whisper, "They've all got the Croix de Guerre, Adolphe, you see—-"—"Those are real poilus!"
Our comrades overhear, and now they only talk among themselves abstractedly, with their ears elsewhere, and an unconscious air of importance appears.
A moment later, the man and woman from whom the remarks proceeded lean towards us with their elbows on the white marble and question us: "Life in the trenches, it's very rough, isn't it?"
"Er—yes—well, of course, it isn't always pleasant."