"Eh, oui, maman, a flick with a brush'll do us instead of tablecloth."
The woman hardly knows what to say; she watches us spitefully: "There's only two stools, and how many are there of you?"
"About a dozen."
"A dozen. Jesus Maria!"
"What does it matter? That'll be all right, seeing there's a plank here—and that's a bench ready-made, eh, Lamuse?"
"Course," says Lamuse.
"I want that plank," says the woman. "Some soldiers that were here before you have tried already to take it away."
"But us, we're not thieves," suggests Lamuse gently, so as not to irritate the creature that has our comfort at her disposal.
"I don't say you are, but soldiers, vous savez, they smash everything up. Oh, the misery of this war!"
"Well then, how much'll it be, to hire the table, and to heat up a thing or two on the stove?"