He holds up his two wooden pink hands to a
French officer, whose curly wig makes a cushion for a juvenile cap,
who has bulging, crimson cheeks, and whose infantile eye of adamant
looks somewhere else. Beside the two personages lies a rifle
bar-rowed from the odd trophies of a box of toys. A card gives the
title of the animated group--"Kamarad!"
"Ah, damn it, look!"
We shrug our shoulders at sight of the puerile contrivance, the only
thing here that recalls to us the gigantic war raging somewhere
under the sky. We begin to laugh bitterly, offended and even wounded
to the quick in our new impressions. Tirette collects himself, and
some abusive sarcasm rises to his lips; but the protest lingers and
is mute by reason of our total transportation, the amazement of
being somewhere else.
Our group is then espied by a very stylish and rustling lady,
radiant in violet and black silk and enveloped in perfumes. She puts
out her little gloved hand and touches Volpatte's sleeve and then
Blaire's shoulder, and they instantly halt, gorgonized by this
direct contact with the fairy-like being.
"Tell me, messieurs, you who are real soldiers from the front, you
have seen that in the trenches, haven't you?"
"Er--yes--yes." reply the two poor fellows, horribly frightened and
gloriously gratified.
"Ah!" the crowd murmurs, "did you hear? And they've been there, they
have!"
When we find ourselves alone again on the flagged perfection of the
pavement, Volpatte and Blaire look at each other and shake their
heads.
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