If you cannot, how is it our fault? The harm we do to
others--is it so much? If I am criminal, dangerous--shut me up!
I would not pity myself--nevare. But we in whom something moves--
like that flame, Monsieur, that cannot keep still--we others--we are
not many--that must have motion in our lives, do not let them make
us prisoners, with their theories, because we are not like them--it
is life itself they would enclose! [He draws up his tattered
figure, then bending over the fire again.] I ask your pardon; I am
talking. If I could smoke, Monsieur!
[WELLWYN hands him a tobacco pouch; and he rolls a cigarette
with his yellow-Stained fingers.]
FERRAND. The good God made me so that I would rather walk a whole
month of nights, hungry, with the stars, than sit one single day
making round business on an office stool! It is not to my
advantage. I cannot help it that I am a vagabond. What would you
have? It is stronger than me. [He looks suddenly at WELLWYN.]
Monsieur, I say to you things I have never said.
WELLWYN. [Quietly.] Go on, go on. [There is silence.]
FERRAND. [Suddenly.
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