'But you are starved to death.'
He was in truth emaciated, begrimed and in rags:—a true conqueror! He swayed too as he stood.
'What's wrong with you? Are you drunk?'
'I—am still weak.'
That he was weak, was certain, but he was tipsy also. For one glass of vodka would have been sufficient in his state of exhaustion, and Bartek had drunk something like four at the station. The result was that he had the bearing of the true conqueror. He had not been like this formerly.
'Ruhig!' he repeated. 'We have finished the Krieg. I am a gentleman now, do you understand? Look here!' he pointed to his crosses and medals. 'Do you know who I am? Eh? Links! Rechts! Heu! Stroh! Halt!'
At the word, 'halt,' he gave such a shrill shout that the woman recoiled several steps.
'Are you mad?'
'How are you, Magda? When I say to you "how are you" then how are you? Do you know French, stupid? "Musiu, Musiu!" What is "Musiu?" I am a "Musiu," do you understand?'