The hothouse kind of night we have passed has, I find, robbed me of all force and energy. My body is languid, my tongue thick, my scalp irritates. And as for Porchon, he cannot even open his eyes. He wrinkles up his face; a tremendous effort and the lids part; but they are so heavy that they close again.
Everything is slack to-day and rather depressing because of that slackness. I wandered slowly through the muddy streets. What am I going to do? In a couple of hours' time we are going to dine. That at least will be something, but what to do until that time?
I go from door to door on a commandeering expedition—a fowl, jam, wine, "it doesn't matter what, anything you have." Small success attends my effort. I obtain only a few onions and a bottle of liqueur, weak and oversweetened, obtained only after a struggle and at a preposterous price.
The Adjutant whom I meet offers me a drink. A quarter of an hour afterwards Major C—— calls for me and asks me to call at the house where he is messing with the Ensign. Waiters are opening bottles of preserves, and carving meat. The Major bursts in on them:
"Look sharp! Fetch a cloth, three glasses, and 'the' bottle and some water."
One more drink! Well, I suppose so, but my heaviness increases. I go back to my room, where I find a sleepy Porchon stretched out in a chair looking vaguely into space.
"What are we going to do? Shall we play écarté?"
He unfolds a piece of newspaper and takes out a pack of greasy cards. We sit down to play:
"The king!… Pass … trump … trump…."
"Ah, zut! What can you do with a game like this?"