They keep close together, as if there were some physical instinct
connecting them. And they are quite womanless. There is a curious
inter-absorption among themselves, a sort of physical trance that holds
them all, and puts their minds to sleep. There is a strange, hypnotic
unanimity among them as they put on their plumed hats and go out
together, always very close, as if their bodies must touch. Then they
feel safe and content in this heavy, physical trance. They are in love
with one another, the young men love the young men. They shrink from the
world beyond, from the outsiders, from all who are not Bersaglieri of
their barracks.
One man is a sort of leader. He is very straight and solid, solid like a
wall, with a dark, unblemished will. His cock-feathers slither in a
profuse, heavy stream from his black oil-cloth hat, almost to his
shoulder. He swings round. His feathers slip into a cascade. Then he
goes out to the hall, his feather tossing and falling richly. He must be
well off. The Bersaglieri buy their own black cock's-plumes, and some
pay twenty or thirty francs for the bunch, so the maestra said.
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