y siphon, I mark the painter who cries fire, I press the trigger, the
discharge hits him full in his face; then I place myself in front of
him, I receive the stream in my beard, I rub my nose with the lather, I
dry my face. We are ready, we go downstairs. The field is deserted;
we scale the wall; Francis takes his measure and jumps. I am sitting
astride the coping of the wall, I cast a rapid glance around me; below,
a ditch and some grass, on the right one of the gates of the town; in
the distance, a forest that sways and shows its rents of golden red
against a band of pale blue. I stand up; I hear a noise in the court; I
jump; we skirt the walls; we are in Evreux!

Shall we eat? Motion adopted.

Making our way in search of a resting-place, we perceive two little
women wagging along. We follow them and offer to breakfast with them;
they refuse; we insist; they answer no less gently; we insist again;
they say yes. We go home with them, with a meat-pie, bottles of wine,
eggs, and a cold chicken. It seems odd to us to find ourselves in a
light room hung with paper spotted with lilac blossoms and green leaves;
there are at the casements damask curtains of red currant color, a
mirror over the fireplace, an engraving representing a Christ tormented
by the Pharisees. Six chairs of cherry wood and a round table with an
oilcloth showing the kings of France, a bedspread with eiderdown of pink
muslin. We set the table, we look with greedy eye at the girls moving
about. It takes a long time to get things ready, for we stop them for a
kiss in passing; for the rest, they are ugly and stupid enough. But what
is that to us? It's so long since we have scented the mouth of woman!

I carve the chicken; the corks fly, we drink like topers, we eat
like ogres. The coffee steams in the cups; we gild it with cognac;
my melancholy flies away, the punch kindles, the blue flames of the
Kirschwasser leap in the salad bowl, the girls giggle, their hair in
their eyes. Suddenly four strokes ring out slowly from the church tower.
It is four o'clock. And the hospital! Good heavens, we had forgotten it!
I turn pale. Francis looks at me in fright, we tear ourselves from the
arms of our hostesses, we go out at double quick.

"How to get in?" says the painter.

Alas! we have no choice; we shall get there scarcely in time for supper.
Let's trust to the mercy of heaven and make for the great gate!

We get there; we ring; the sister concierge is about to