Crillon groans and bends so low in his hand-to-hand struggle with the pains which beset him that I think his forehead is going to strike the marble-topped table.
He tells me in detail of his little business, which is going badly, and how he has confused glimpses of the bare and empty future which awaits him--when a sergeant with a fair mustache and eyeglasses makes his entry.

This personage, whose collar shows white thunderbolts,[1] instead of a number, comes and sits near us.

He orders a port wine and Victorine serves it with a smile.

She smiles at random, and indistinctly, at all the men, like Nature.
[Footnote 1: Distinctive badge for Staff officers and others .-- Tr.] The newcomer takes off his cap, looks at the windows and yawns.

"I'm bored," he says.
He comes nearer and freely offers us his talk.