“My friends, we used to quarrel a little. Perhaps it was my fault. To-day I am happy; I feel that we have something better to do than to quarrel—work.”
Philipon gave a growl of applause.
“That’s it—work!”
He glared at the group of youths. Anatole went on.
“Bien. It is not my ground or your ground, it is our ground. It is our Beaucourt. What do you say? The women to the gardens and the rubbish heaps, the men to the saw and the hammer and the fields. But you know what to do. I am an old man, I am enjoying myself; I am spending what I cannot take with me. I do not stand here and crow; I want to be just a little old man in Beaucourt.”
There were cries of emotion from the little crowd.
“We understand, monsieur.”
“Without you it could not have happened.”
Durand made a face as though he were not far from tears.
“That’s it; we are all Frenchmen together. Now, then, let me explain.”