seemed utterly exhausted, as a hand is by long drawn-out masturbation that is about to end in orgasm. The merry-go-round discharged like a vigorous boy.
On the balcony, his gestures were hindered only slightly by his equipment, for though the straps of the machine gun had been tied around his chest tightly, his breathing had quickly eased the strain a little and freed his thorax. He reached into the pocket of his breeches for a cigarette. He found only a few butts, and his disappointment restored the lucidity that fatigue and adventure had swept away. Fatigue was numbing his anxiety so that he could rest.
“No question about it, they're the last butts. And the Fritzes don't have a damn thing. Not much grub left. Nothin’ to smoke. Nothin’ to eat. Not even shoes.”
He felt his barefootedness on the iron of the balcony. His stomach was rumbling. The bareness of his feet and their delicacy and the flesh of his arms made the German soldiers green with jealousy as they watched him, made them think of an animal with an extremely fragile body that emerges from a few holes in its protective shell. He was in Ménilmontant, on the hill, not far from his own street, entwined from his belt to his neck in the mutely glittering coils that the Fritzes made him wear. When they left the cellar of the house, which until the insurrection had been used as barracks by the decimated platoon, the Boche sergeant had decided that the militiaman would not do any shooting. They wrapped him in bullets. His bare arms and legs were suddenly clad with sovereign gentleness and elegance, that is, the elegance and gentleness of a sovereign when he emerges for a moment from armor that is only slightly more glittering than his majesty. He insisted on keeping his machine gun.
“Come on, sarge, lemme keep my putt-putt.”
He looked at the German out of the corner of his eye, and, though he was joking, his whorish gaze was so imploring—one sees that look in the gaze of certain dogs when the gravity of the circumstances, the proximity of death or danger, impart to their eyes a gleam of appeal (a signal light)—that the sergeant smiled with amusement at the contrast between the eyes and the mouth. Like a shot, Riton's legs carried him back two yards, near the wall where the machine gun was lying, but the torso, from which two bare arms emerged, like cabin boys emerging from the hatchways of a battleship, responded to the agility of the legs with lordly slowness and heaviness, and it was then that it occurred to Riton to look at himself in the mirror. He turned to the wall instinctively: there was no mirror. Then he felt his body. He ran his hands over the surface of the metal, grazing the shudder of the bullets. Projectiles were raining all around the house and bursting against the wall, fragments of which could at times be heard falling to the ground. In the cellar, the seven German soldiers were busily preparing their escape. (It was impossible to defend the house. They had to beat a retreat, to try to get to the roofs. What was left of the platoon had escaped by the sewers.) They were continually obsessed by the secret thought of a danger greater than the combat of which they were the center. They spoke very little among themselves and hardly ever helped one another. As Riton saw them, they were seven young men whose only fault was cocksuredness.
Standing motionless in front of the soldiers, he was as fragile, and elegant too, as a hazel stick that has been placed—and abandoned by the hand of a young cowherd who has just entered a cabaret—against the horns and slobbery muzzles of a pair of motionless, subjugated oxen.
The sergeant had told him to take off his shoes. Sincethen, he has been barefoot. And that night on the balcony, at sea in Ménilmontant, with his machine gun lying beside him, he thought:
“All the same, it's gorgeous.”
Had he been the target of a whole army of soldiers, he would have loved to show himself to them at dawn,
On the balcony, his gestures were hindered only slightly by his equipment, for though the straps of the machine gun had been tied around his chest tightly, his breathing had quickly eased the strain a little and freed his thorax. He reached into the pocket of his breeches for a cigarette. He found only a few butts, and his disappointment restored the lucidity that fatigue and adventure had swept away. Fatigue was numbing his anxiety so that he could rest.
“No question about it, they're the last butts. And the Fritzes don't have a damn thing. Not much grub left. Nothin’ to smoke. Nothin’ to eat. Not even shoes.”
He felt his barefootedness on the iron of the balcony. His stomach was rumbling. The bareness of his feet and their delicacy and the flesh of his arms made the German soldiers green with jealousy as they watched him, made them think of an animal with an extremely fragile body that emerges from a few holes in its protective shell. He was in Ménilmontant, on the hill, not far from his own street, entwined from his belt to his neck in the mutely glittering coils that the Fritzes made him wear. When they left the cellar of the house, which until the insurrection had been used as barracks by the decimated platoon, the Boche sergeant had decided that the militiaman would not do any shooting. They wrapped him in bullets. His bare arms and legs were suddenly clad with sovereign gentleness and elegance, that is, the elegance and gentleness of a sovereign when he emerges for a moment from armor that is only slightly more glittering than his majesty. He insisted on keeping his machine gun.
“Come on, sarge, lemme keep my putt-putt.”
He looked at the German out of the corner of his eye, and, though he was joking, his whorish gaze was so imploring—one sees that look in the gaze of certain dogs when the gravity of the circumstances, the proximity of death or danger, impart to their eyes a gleam of appeal (a signal light)—that the sergeant smiled with amusement at the contrast between the eyes and the mouth. Like a shot, Riton's legs carried him back two yards, near the wall where the machine gun was lying, but the torso, from which two bare arms emerged, like cabin boys emerging from the hatchways of a battleship, responded to the agility of the legs with lordly slowness and heaviness, and it was then that it occurred to Riton to look at himself in the mirror. He turned to the wall instinctively: there was no mirror. Then he felt his body. He ran his hands over the surface of the metal, grazing the shudder of the bullets. Projectiles were raining all around the house and bursting against the wall, fragments of which could at times be heard falling to the ground. In the cellar, the seven German soldiers were busily preparing their escape. (It was impossible to defend the house. They had to beat a retreat, to try to get to the roofs. What was left of the platoon had escaped by the sewers.) They were continually obsessed by the secret thought of a danger greater than the combat of which they were the center. They spoke very little among themselves and hardly ever helped one another. As Riton saw them, they were seven young men whose only fault was cocksuredness.
Standing motionless in front of the soldiers, he was as fragile, and elegant too, as a hazel stick that has been placed—and abandoned by the hand of a young cowherd who has just entered a cabaret—against the horns and slobbery muzzles of a pair of motionless, subjugated oxen.
The sergeant had told him to take off his shoes. Sincethen, he has been barefoot. And that night on the balcony, at sea in Ménilmontant, with his machine gun lying beside him, he thought:
“All the same, it's gorgeous.”
Had he been the target of a whole army of soldiers, he would have loved to show himself to them at dawn,
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