"And you want it all over again?" he said. "More Uhlans burning and sacking?... Oh, no, I've had enough of that game! You just let me be as I am!"
He was filled with the small land-owner's hatred against all those, Frenchmen or others, who were likely to tread with a sacrilegious foot on the sown earth, where the harvest is so slow in coming. He crossed his arms, with a serious air.
"And you, Poussière, what would you say if we went to war?" asked Morestal, calling to the old tramp, who was sitting on the parapet of the terrace, breaking a crust.
The man was lean and wizened, twisted like a vine-shoot, with long, dust-coloured hair and a melancholy, impassive face that seemed carved out of old oak. He put in an appearance at Saint-Élophe once every three or four months. He knocked at the doors of the houses and then went off again.
"What country do you belong to, to begin with?"
He grunted:
"Don't know much about it ... it's so long ago...."
"Which do you like best? France, eh? The roads on this side?"
The old chap swung his legs without answering, perhaps without understanding. Saboureux grinned:
"He doesn't look at the roads, not he! He doesn't as much as know if he belongs to the country on the right or on the left! His country lies where the grub lies ... eh, Poussière?"