"'But, my good man—'
"'But me no buts. It's nine o'clock, and you've got to take your hook before day. So good-night. Coming, you others?'
"'Rather,' say the boys. 'Good-night all.'
"There they are at the door and opening it. Mariette and me, we look at each other—but we don't move. Once more we look at each other, and then we sprang at them. I grabbed the skirt of a coat and she a belt—all wet enough to wring out.
"'Never! We won't let you go—it can't be done.'
"'But—'
"'But me no buts,' I reply, while she locks the door."
"Then what?" asked Lamuse.
"Then? Nothing at all," replied Eudore. "We just stayed like that, very discreetly—all the night—sitting, propped up in the corners, yawning—like the watchers over a dead man. We made a bit of talk at first. From time to time some one said, 'Is it still raining?' and went and had a look, and said, 'It's still raining'—we could hear it, by the way. A big chap who had a mustache like a Bulgarian fought against sleeping like a wild man. Sometimes one or two among the crowd slept, but there was always one to yawn and keep an eye open for politeness, who stretched himself or half got up so that he could settle more comfortably.
"Mariette and me, we never slept. We looked at each other, but we looked at the others as well, and they looked at us, and there you are.