And feeling the rags of the common soldier still on me, I knit my brows and realize that it is a disgrace and a shame for the poor to be deceived as they are.
Crillon is smiling, as always! On his huge face, where every passing day now leaves some marks, on his round-eyed weakened face with its mouth opened like a cypher, the old smile of yore is spread out.

I used to think then that resignation was a virtue; I see now that it is a vice.

The optimist is the permanent accomplice of all evil-doers.
This passive smile which I admired but lately--I find it despicable on this poor face.
* * * * * * The cafe has filled up with workmen, either old or very young, from the town and the country, but chiefly the country.
What are they doing, these lowly, these ill-paid?
They are dirty and they are drinking.

They are dark, although it is the forenoon, because they are dirty.

In the light there is that obscurity which they carry on them; and a bad smell removes itself with them.
I see three convalescent soldiers from the hospital join the plebeian groups; they are recognized by their coarse clothes, their caps and big boots, and because their gestures are soldered together and conform to a common movement.
By force of "glasses all round," these drinkers begin to talk in loud voices; they get excited and shout at random; and in the end they drop visibly into unconsciousness, into oblivion, into defeat.
The wine-merchant is at his cash desk, which shines like silver.