and encouraged, as she frowned and rebuffed, and
the game seemed to Beauvais puerile and disgusting.
Quite suddenly he grew bored with them both; his
leg ached and he longed to be in his bed:
'Waiter!5 he called irritably, 'More brandy.3
The room was stifling, and the little violinist was
making a truly infernal racket in an effort to please
Mere Melanie who insisted that he should appear
light-hearted. Round and round went the lumbering,
perspiring dancers, butting into each other, butting
into the tables; men who three years ago had been
lank, beardless cubs but whose chins were now rough
and dark by the evening; girls who six months ago
had been going to school but who now had the air of
experienced women. Forced products, the over-ripe
fruits of war, already tinged with an early decay
because grown in the steaming dung of disruption.
And since death was seldom far from their thoughts
they clasped and kissed and danced rather grimly,
not pausing to laugh when they upset a chair, or even
to jest while the music continued. Kissing and clasping
they danced against time, body straining to body,
desire to desire, for who dared count upon time as a
friend? Every woman possessed might well be the
last, every lover refused might not live to be accepted.
Even the youngsters at home on first leave quite
failed to dispel this atmosphere of grimness, failed
to make of la Tarasque the place it had been on those
hot summer nights before the war when tempers were
short while knives could be long, when the little
violinist with the hump on his back stirred more than
the air by his shrill, teasing music. For one thing
they had not known the place then, with its gay and
inconsequent melodrama which had frequently led
to nothing more grave than a broken nose or a prick
in the shoulder; for another the little violinist was sad,
so that when he played he stirred only himself and
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