“Half-way down the Rue de Picardie a peasant is lying flat on the roof of a house. He has a white patch on the seat of his trousers, as though the curé had given him a smack with his whitewash brush. Then we come to the café. I can see the café quite plainly.”
“We will stay there a moment. What is happening at the café?”
“A woman is hanging out linen on a line in the orchard.”
“That’s a waste of time—when we are going to dirty it for them.”
“Oh—yes—and I can see the man. He is standing on a ladder doing something to the new sign-board.”
“More waste of time. We shall drop a bomb on them next Sunday.”
Bibi remained silent for a while, his blind face like a grotesque gargoyle spewing hatred over the house of his enemy. Barbe watched him out of the corners of her eyes, her arm resting upon his shoulders. She knew that some plan was forming in his mind, and, though he had thrown out nothing but hints to her, she was ready to help her man.
“What happens on Sunday?”
He turned his blind eyes to her.
“You are not going to cut my hair—like that woman in the Bible.”