And then always, "How long the days are at this season!"
They are taking out for a walk those of the éclopés who are fit for it. There must be nearly a hundred of them. In every possible sort of patched, discolored uniform, here they come hopping and hobbling along. They have more crutches and canes than feet among the lot of them.
One of the men who has no legs goes so fast on his wooden stump and his crutches that everybody stops to look, and all the éclopés laugh, and the people stopping to look, laugh, and he laughs more than any of them.
If things are tragic enough, they are funny. I have come to know that, with the éclopés at the gate. And inside the gate, with those of the éclopés who keep back against the walls, I have come to know that the only safety of life is death.
II—STORY OF THE OLD WOMAN AND THE OMELET
The vine was red on the white old soft wall. It was very beautiful. There were masses of purple asters under the red vine, against the wall. There was a bowl of purple asters on the table between the carafes of red and white wine.
We had an omelet and bread and butter and raspberries, and water, very beautiful in the thick greenish glasses.
Under the yellow boughs of the lime tree we could see the misty valley and the mountains.
The table had a red-and-white cloth.