“No. I want to be where I could see all Beaucourt like a meal laid out on a table.”
She chose a shady place for him at the foot of a beech tree, spreading out her skirt and making him sit on it. From the Bois du Renard it was possible to see the whole of Beaucourt and the fields and woods lying about it in the broad August sunshine. Bibi sat with his knees drawn up and his elbows resting on them. Barbe let her right arm lie across his shoulders.
“There it is,” she said; “I can even see little Crapaud putting new tiles on the factory roof.”
Bibi moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“Tell me all about it, just as though you were painting a picture.”
She humoured him, describing Beaucourt and all that she could see happening in Beaucourt, using that brisk and satirical slang of hers, the language of the comptoir.
“There is the church with half its spire knocked off, and, I suppose, inside of it old Lefèbre is splashing whitewash about. The post-office in the Place—just like a flat grey louse crawling up to have a bite at the church! Someone is walking about in the ruins of your hotel.”
“Yes, my hotel! Who is it?”
“It’s too far off for me to see, but he has a basket, and seems to be picking up bricks.”
“My bricks! Well, it doesn’t matter. Go on.”