We turned down as usual to the river. It was very dark⁠—the rain was heavy on the quayside, where there was a group of people bareheaded in the rain and chattering in French, with gusts of laughter.

“ Une bouteille de champagne! ” The words were spoken in a clear boy’s voice, with an elaborate caricature of French accent, in musical cadence, but unmistakably English.

“A drunken officer,” said Thomas.

“Poor devil!”

We drew near among the people and saw a young officer arm in arm with a French peasant⁠—one of the market porters⁠—telling a tale in broken French to the audience about him, with comic gesticulations and extraordinary volubility.

A woman put her hand on my shoulder and spoke in French.