Cocon, no less, a slight and desiccated person in spectacles, whose tint tells of corrosion in the chemical vapors of great towns, contrasts with Biquet, a Breton in the rough, whose skin is gray and his jaw like a paving-stone; and Mesnil Andre, the comfortable chemist from a country town in Normandy, who has such a handsome and silky beard and who talks so much and so well—­he has little in common with Lamuse, the fat peasant of Poitou, whose cheeks and neck are like underdone beef.  The suburban accent of Barque, whose long legs have scoured the streets of Paris in all directions, alternates with the semi-Belgian cadence of those Northerners who came from the 8th Territorial; with the sonorous speech, rolling on the syllables as if over cobblestone, that the 144th pours out upon us; with the dialect blown from those ant-like clusters that the Auvergnats so obstinately form among the rest.  I remember the first words of that wag, Tirette, when he arrived—­“I, mes enfants, I am from Clichy-la-Garenne!  Can any one beat that?”—­and the first grievance that Paradis brought to me, “They don’t give a damn for me, because I’m from Morvan!”

* * * * * *

Our callings?  A little of all—­in the lump.  In those departed days when we had a social status, before we came to immure our destiny in the molehills that we must always build up again as fast as rain and scrap-iron beat them down, what were we?  Sons of the soil and artisans mostly.  Lamuse was a farm-servant, Paradis a carter.  Cadilhac, whose helmet rides loosely on his pointed head, though it is a juvenile size—­like a dome on a steeple, says Tirette—­owns land.  Papa Blaire was a small farmer in La Brie.  Barque, porter and messenger, performed acrobatic tricks with his carrier-tricycle among the trains and taxis of Paris, with solemn abuse (so they say) for the pedestrians, fleeing like bewildered hens across the big streets and squares.  Corporal Bertrand, who keeps himself always a little aloof, correct, erect, and silent, with a strong and handsome face and forthright gaze, was foreman in a case-factory.  Tirloir daubed carts with paint—­and without grumbling, they say.  Tulacque was barman at the Throne Tavern in the suburbs; and Eudore of the pale and pleasant face kept a roadside cafe not very far from the front lines.  It has been ill-used by the shells—­naturally, for we all know that Eudore has no luck.  Mesnil Andre, who still retains a trace of well-kept distinction, sold bicarbonate and infallible remedies at his pharmacy in a Grande Place.  His brother Joseph was selling papers and illustrated story-books in a station on the State Railways at the same time that, in far-off Lyons, Cocon, the man of spectacles and statistics, dressed in a black smock, busied himself behind the counters of an ironmongery, his hands glittering with plumbago; while the lamps of Becuwe Adolphe and Poterloo, risen with the dawn, trailed about the coalpits of the North like weakling Will-o’-th’-wisps.