No one would have recognized our friend Bartek, as he now sat at the table. He, formerly so meek, was to be seen striking his fist on the table, puffing himself out and gobbling like a turkey-cock.
'Do you remember, you fellows, that time I did for the French, what Steinmetz said?'
'How could we forget?'
'People used to talk about the French, and be frightened of them, but they are a poor lot—was? They run like hares into the lettuce, and run away like hares too. They don't drink beer either, nothing but strong wine.'
'That's it!'
'When we burnt a town they would wring their hands immediately and cry "Pitié, pitié,"[7] as if they meant they would give us a drink if we would only leave them alone. But we paid no attention to them.'
'Then can one understand their gibberish?' enquired a young farmer's lad.
'You wouldn't understand, because you are stupid, but I understand. "Doné di pę!"[8] Do you understand?'
'But what did you do?'
'Do you know about Paris? We had one battle after another there, but we won them all. They have no good commanders. People say so too. "The ground enclosed by the hedge is good," they say, "but it has been badly managed." Their officers are bad managers, and their generals are bad managers, but on our side they are good.'