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Loud and angry were the denunciations of Coutard and Picot in their ragged, dusty uniforms as they cut themselves huge slices of bread and bolted bits of cheese, evoking their bitter memories there in the shade of the pretty trellis, where the sun played hide and seek among the purple and gold of the clusters of ripening grapes.
He once chanced to see a general on horseback, in full uniform, pass along the street, Comte Coutard, the commandant of Paris.
Twenty-four hours after the last train rolled out of the station the Prussians entered the town. "Ah, the cursed luck!" said Picot in conclusion; "how we had to ply our legs! And we who should by rights have been in hospital!" Coutard emptied what was left in the bottle into his own and his comrade's glass. "Yes, we got on our pins, somehow, and are running yet.
He good-naturedly informed the two soldiers of the exact position of their regiments, then lit a cigar and seated himself contentedly before his demitasse. "The pleasure was all mine, comrades!" Maurice replied to Coutard and Picot, who, as they were leaving, thanked him for the cheese and wine.
"Ah! foutre, yes!" continued the taller of the two as he plied his jaws, "it was no laughing matter there! You ought to have seen it, tell him how it was, Coutard." And the little man told his story with many gestures, describing figures on the air with his bread. "I was washing my shirt, you see, while the rest of them were making soup.
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