"The third day," they read; or "the second"; territorials, "the eleventh."
"You'll get there too late, old chap!"
The upshot was that each one seemed overjoyed or heart-broken, according to whether he would have time to get his hay in or not.
Very few remarks; and anyhow not a single grumble. My cousin, who forced himself to keep up his cheery tone, met with no echo. He could only drag a few disconnected sentences out of the broken-down old deputy.
The visitors did not linger, but soon turned on their heels, their wooden pipes in their mouths.
Lecomte bustled and fussed, full of the importance of his part. As for me I took part in it all as the stranger I was, and incapable of realising the tragic element afloat in the air.
When the doctor wanted to go in, I urged him to take a turn with me through the village streets. I expected at last to come upon some unexpected, and unusual demonstration ... the evening of mobilisation! The great evening, by Jove! I was disillusioned, we met no one in the poorly lit streets. In the little schoolyard the teacher's son was making figures of eight on his bicycle; further on through an open window, we saw a lot of farm hands sitting round a table, limp and taciturn, gorging themselves with soup. And the usual frequenters of Tronquière's "pub" were sipping their verre de verte in silence.
My cousin did not rise much in answer to my short sentences. However, when I asked him:
"Are they patriotic about here?"