war, some of which had been brought to France by the
English: 'It's a long, long way to Tipperary,5 he played
— rather lugubriously* it is true, tor he thought this
particular song melancholy.
And sometimes the clients would have none of it,
but must shout instead for a hoary old favourite:
c "As tu vu les fesses de ma belle Louise?'* Tafort,
Alexandre! "As tu vu les fesses. . . ." *
Then the little violinist would try to grin: 'As tu
vu les fesses de ma belle Louise?' he would play,
swaying lightly upon his toes as the insolent ribaldry
pranced from his fiddle.
Eusebe would sit and dream in his corner; very
drunk, very old, and dirtier than ever. And his
dreams would be of more splendid wars, of more
splendid men, of more splendid women. Helen of
Troy he would love in his dreams while the wine made
a mock of his unruly senses and kindled his long
since impotent desires into besotted, virile illusions.
Nay, even Venus he would love in his dreams, and he
coming at her with the thunders of Jove ... or was it
Apollo? Or was it Ulysses? His mythology grew
somewhat vague at such times but no matter, the
result would be much the same, and to Eusebe quite
satisfactory.
Then those who were about to lay down their lives
might start to jeer at the old sandal-maker; less
crudely, perhaps, than the men from the tartanes, but
nevertheless they might start to jeer: cBon soir, mon
general. How goes the war? Superbly, no doubt,
since mon general snores! Boudieu, what a scarecrow!
We will take you along to Berlin in order to frighten
the Kaiser/
And perhaps Eusebe would open his eyes and just
stare at them blankly, vouchsafing no answer. One
evening, however, he jeered in his turn; 'How goes
the war? You may very well ask. "Kill!" you say.
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