every
sunday
as
soon
as
they
were
free
the
little
soldiers
would
go
for
a
walk
they
turned
to
the
right
on
leaving
the
barracks
crossed
courbevoie
with
rapid
strides
as
though
on
a
forced
march
then
as
the
houses
grew
scarcer
they
slowed
down
and
followed
the
dusty
road
which
leads
to
bezons
they
were
small
and
thin
lost
in
their
ill
fitting
capes
too
large
and
too
long
whose
sleeves
covered
their
hands
their
ample
red
trousers
fell
in
folds
around
their
ankles
under
the
high
stiff
shako
one
could
just
barely
perceive
two
thin
hollow
cheeked
breton
faces
with
their
calm
naive
blue
eyes
they
never
spoke
during
their
journey
going
straight
before
them
the
same
idea
in
each
one
s
mind
taking
the
place
of
conversation
for
at
the
entrance
of
the
little
forest
of
champioux
they
had
found
a
spot
which
reminded
them
of
home
and
they
did
not
feel
happy
anywhere
else
at
the
crossing
of
the
colombes
and
chatou
roads
when
they
arrived
under
the
trees
they
would
take
off
their
heavy
oppressive
headgear
and
wipe
their
foreheads
they
always
stopped
for
a
while
on
the
bridge
at
bezons
and
looked
at
the
seine
they
stood
there
several
minutes
bending
over
the
railing
watching
the
white
sails
which
perhaps
reminded
them
of
their
home
and
of
the
fishing
smacks
leaving
for
the
open
as
soon
as
they
had
crossed
the
seine
they
would
purchase
provisions
at
the
delicatessen
the
baker
s
and
the
wine
merchant
s
a
piece
of
bologna
four
cents
worth
of
bread
and
a
quart
of
wine
made
up
the
luncheon
which
they
carried
away
wrapped
up
in
their
handkerchiefs
but
as
soon
as
they
were
out
of
the
village
their
gait
would
slacken
and
they
would
begin
to
talk
before
them
was
a
plain
with
a
few
clumps
of
trees
which
led
to
the
woods
a
little
forest
which
seemed
to
remind
them
of
that
other
forest
at
kermarivan
the
wheat
and
oat
fields
bordered
on
the
narrow
path
and
jean
kerderen
said
each
time
to
luc
le
ganidec
it
s
just
like
home
just
like
plounivon
yes
it
s
just
like
home
and
they
went
on
side
by
side
their
minds
full
of
dim
memories
of
home
they
saw
the
fields
the
hedges
the
forests
and
beaches
each
time
they
stopped
near
a
large
stone
on
the
edge
of
the
private
estate
because
it
reminded
them
of
the
dolmen
of
locneuven
as
soon
as
they
reached
the
first
clump
of
trees
luc
le
ganidec
would
cut
off
a
small
stick
and
whittling
it
slowly
would
walk
on
thinking
of
the
folks
at
home