He is one of these human steam-rollers who crush down all opposition; so that night we five met in the merriest café in the Boul’ Mich’. Below its bizarre frescoes of student life we had our table, and considering that four of us did not know where the next month’s rent was coming from we were a notably gay party.
Oh, you unfortunates who dine well every day of your lives, little do you guess the gastronomic bliss of those whose lives are one long Lent! Never could you have vanquished, as we, that host of insidious hors-d’œuvres; never beset as we that bouillon with the brown bread drowned in it. How the crisp fried soles shrank in their shrimp sauce at the spectacle of our devouring rage, and the filet mignon hid in fear under its juicy mushrooms! The salad of chicken and haricots verts seemed to turn still greener with terror, and, as it vanished in total rout, after it we hurled a bomb of Neapolitan ice cream. And the wine! How splendid to have all the Beaune one wants after a course of “Château La Pompe!” And those two bottles of sunshine and laughter from the vaults of Rheims—not more radiantly did they overflow than did our spirits! And so sipping our cafés filtre, we watched the crowd and all the world looked glorious.
The place had filled with the usual mob of students, models and filles-de-joie, and the scene was of more than the usual gaiety. The country had just been swept by a wave of military enthusiasm; patriotism was rampant; the female orchestra perspired in its efforts to be heard. Every one seemed to be thumping on tables with bocks, and two hundred voices were singing:
“Encore un petit verre de vin pour nous mettre en route;
Encore un petit verre de vin pour nous mettre en train.”
Some one started Fragson’s En avant, mes petits Gars, and there was more stamping, shouting and banging of bocks. Then the orchestra broke into the melody for which all were longing:
“Allons, enfants de la Patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé.”
All were up on their seats now, and the song finished in a furore of enthusiasm.
The generous wine had affected us three men differently. Lorrimer was loquacious, Helstern gloomy, while I was inclined to sleep.