Every Sunday, as soon as they were free, the little soldiers would
go for a walk. They turned to the right on leaving the barracks,
crossed Courbevoie with rapid strides, as though on a forced
march; then, as the houses grew scarcer, they slowed down and
followed the dusty road which leads to Bezons.
They were small and thin, lost in their ill-fitting capes, too large
and too long, whose sleeves covered their hands; their ample red
trousers fell in folds around their ankles. Under the high, stiff
shako one could just barely perceive two thin, hollow-cheeked
Breton faces, with their calm, naive blue eyes. They never spoke
during their journey, going straight before them, the same idea
in each one's mind taking the place of conversation. For at the
entrance of the little forest of Champioux they had found a spot
which reminded them of home, and they did not feel happy
anywhere else.
At the crossing of the Colombes and Chatou roads, when they
arrived under the trees, they would take off their heavy,
oppressive headgear and wipe their foreheads.
They always stopped for a while on the bridge at Bezons, and
looked at the Seine. They stood there several minutes, bending
over the railing, watching the white sails, which perhaps
reminded them of their home, and of the fishing smacks leaving
for the open.
As soon as they had crossed the Seine, they would purchase
provisions at the delicatessen, the baker's, and the wine
merchant's. A piece of bologna, four cents' worth of bread, and a
quart of wine, made up the luncheon which they carried away,
wrapped up in their handkerchiefs. But as soon as they were out
of the village their gait would slacken and they would begin to
talk.
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