He went swinging up the Rue de Picardie, and Durand and Manon sat and looked at each other.
“What is the matter with that fellow?”
“What was always the matter with Bibi, monsieur? He has an idea that Beaucourt is an opportunity, that he is going to show off and make money. He always had the biggest voice in the place, you know.”
“Yes, a fog-horn of a man,” said Durand, “a big drum. But what about our St. Simon up there?”
They climbed out of the car, and joined in council with Paul. But old Durand’s attention was divided. He was in Beaucourt, the place of his Frenchman’s dreams, in the thick of these dear ruins that were to bloom again under his hand. He looked at Manon’s house, and was delighted, and his delight almost forgot the worker and the work. Here was his symbol, his example, his banner of hope. He wanted to run through all the village on those sturdy little legs of his, and dream hard-headed dreams of reconstruction.
Manon understood.
“Go and look at Beaucourt, monsieur. I will see to my partner.”
Anatole dashed off, opening a big note-book. He had carried a big note-book all his life; it was his Bible.
“Expect me in half an hour.”
Manon stood in the road and spoke to Paul.