. . such?
"And you?" asked the baker sternly, without taking his eyes off the
girl.
"What's the matter with me?"
"Nothing. . . ."
"Well, quicker, give me biscuits. . . ."
She had never before hurried us on. . . .
"There's plenty of time!" said the baker, his eyes fixed, on her face.
Then she suddenly turned around and disappeared behind the door.
The baker took up his shovel and said calmly, turning towards the
oven:
"It is done, it seems! . . . The soldier! . . . Rascal! . . .
Scoundrel!" . . .
Like a herd of sheep, pushing one another, we walked back to the
table, seated ourselves in silence and began to work slowly. Soon
some one said:
"And perhaps not yet." . . .
"Go on! Talk about it!" cried the baker.
We all knew that he was a clever man, cleverer than any of us, and we
understood by his words that he was firmly convinced of the soldier's
victory. . . . We were sad and uneasy. At twelve o'clock, during
the dinner hour, the soldier came. He was, as usual, clean and
smart, and, as usual, looked straight into our eyes. We felt awkward
to look at him.
"Well, honorable gentlemen, if you wish, I can show you a soldier's
boldness," .
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