remained unswervingly loyal, one friend only, it
seemed, had nothing but praise for Jouse's firm stand
against Anatole Kahn, and that friend was none other
than Eusebe. Lustful, intemperate, blind of an eye,
and openly proclaiming himself a pagan; never
setting his dirty foot inside the church, or giving
a centime to Monsieur le Cure; a disaster, a veritable
thorn in the flesh with his filthy old bedding hung
out of the window so that all who passed by might
see for themselves how complete was his unconcerned
degradation, Eusebe now frequently wandered across
to the Benedit's house after work in the evenings, and
Jouse seemed anxious to make him feel welcome.
They would just sit there talking scarcely at all,
yet conscious of the bond that had sprung up between
them, the bond that binds those who belong to the
past; for each of them knew that he hated the present,
and yet each of them knew that the past was dead,
and moreover that time can have no resurrection;
yes, and each of them knew in his own separate way a
nameless and at moments very deep sadness. And
so they would drink, for the coming of Anatole Kahn,
a vulgar and over-dressed stranger whom both could
despise for the thing that he was, had yet made them
grow conscious of their isolation. Nay more, this
aggressive middle-aged man who was so persuasive
in all his aggressions, this man with the soft voice and
ox-like eyes who when insulted merely lifted his hat
in polite and undisturbed salutation, this man who
when they stood barring his path would arrive at his
goal from another direction; this man who himself
was no longer young, who possessed neither physical
charm nor vigour, was making them feel unaccount-
ably old, and what was still harder to tolerate, helpless.
So Eusebe must tilt back his chair and laugh
hoarsely: 'Ho, hoi, there is always good liquor, and
good liquor makes the blood run fester than girls!
T 289