Another is dressed in a sporting suit, adorned with a plush hat and
binoculars. Pale blue tunics, with shining belts of fawn color or
patent leather, follow and steer the civilians.
With an arm where a brassard glitters in gold-edged silk and golden
ornament, a captain indicates the firing-step in front of an old
emplacement and invites the visitors to get up and try it. The
gentleman in the touring suit clambers up with the aid of his
umbrella.
Says Barque, "You've seen the station-master at the Gare du Nord,
all in his Sunday best, and opening the door of a first-class
compartment for a rich sportsman on the first day of the shooting?
With his 'Montez, monsieur le Propritaire!'--you know, when the
toffs are all togged up in brand-new outfits and leathers and
ironmongery, and showing off with all their paraphernalia for
killing poor little animals!"
Three or four poilus who were quite without their accouterments have
disappeared underground. The others sit as though paralyzed. Even
the pipes go out, and nothing is heard but the babble of talk
exchanged by the officers and their guests.
"Trench tourists," says Barque in an undertone, and then
louder--"This way, mesdames et messieurs"--in the manner of the
moment.
"Chuck it!" whispers Farfadet, fearing that Barque's malicious
tongue will draw the attention of the potent personages.
Some heads in the group are now turned our way. One gentleman who
detaches himself and comes up wears a soft hat and a loose tie.
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