The corporal looked on approvingly. He was a man who worked with his hands, and the Frenchman’s nice and practical taste in choosing his raw material piqued the domesticated craftsman in him. Moreover, this fellow was not greedy.
“I’ve got an old hen house at home,” he said, “needs paintin’, and some new tarred felt on the roof. Lord love a duck, wish I was there.”
Brent tried the bundle on his shoulder. He found that it was not too heavy for him to carry.
“Monsieur,” he said, “tousand thanks. If officier says pay—I pay.”
“Officer—nah poo. The stuff will only rot here, old cock.”
Paul shook hands with the corporal.
“Monsieur, you visit Beaucourt. Fumez cigarette, drink glass of vin rouge.”
“Bong, très bong,” said Corporal Sweeney; “me for Beaucourt, mossoo, toote sweet.”
Brent took the road to Beaucourt with that bundle on his back. The wind had dropped, and the western sky was a great arch of blue, with the sun coming and going behind hummocks of white cloud. From the hill above Harlech Dump Brent could see Beaucourt, a distinct chequer of red and white between the purple of the woods, the broken spire of its church a soft blue line against the blue horizon. He dropped his bundle and sat down to rest on the bank side of the road, with the sunlight playing on him through the branches of a road-side apple tree. There was a little wood behind him and in it birds were singing.
Brent sat and looked towards Beaucourt, and his thoughts were of the simplest. He was busy making a canvas ceiling or canopy for the kitchen, and filling his windows with oiled linen. He had a boyish desire to go home and to paint that front door, at once and without delay—a joyous April green. It was very pleasant to work for Manon. She was so delighted with things that he always felt that he wanted to fetch her to see any new piece of work that he had completed. He liked to watch her eyes and face light up.