"He knew that he could not paint an inscription in French on a shop any more. M. Haas would never—I know it—have painted a stroke of a brush in contravention of the law. But he thought he could at least put a coat of varnish on the sign he was painting, where he had painted a long time ago the word 'Chemiserie.' They made him appear and threatened to take proceedings against him, because he was preserving the inscription with his varnish. Why, that was last October!"
"Oh, oh, would not M. Hamm be pleased if the rain, the wind, and the thunder threw down the sign of the inn here, which is called: 'Le Pigeon blanc' as happened to 'La Cigogne.'"
It was old Josephine the bilberry-picker who said to the farmer's wife, who at this moment appeared on the threshold of her house:
"Sad Alsace! How gay she was when we were young! Wasn't she, Madame Ramspacher?"
"Yes. Now—for nothing—evictions, lawsuits, and prison! The police everywhere."
"You had better keep silence!" said Ramspacher in a reproachful tone.
The younger son Francis took his mother's side.
"There are no traitors here. And then, how can one keep silence? They are too hard. That is why so many young men emigrate!"
From his corner in the shadow, Jean looked at these young girls who were listening—with flashing eyes, some motionless and erect, others continuing to bend and rise over their work of stripping the hop-plants.
"Work then—instead of so much chattering!" said the master's voice.