omfort and even of happiness for which in the
main houses were built.

"We should easily get used to it again, you know, old man, after all!"

Meanwhile a crowd is gathered around an outfitter's shop-window where
the proprietor has contrived, with the aid of mannikins in wood and
wax, a ridiculous tableau. On a groundwork of little pebbles like those
in an aquarium, there is a kneeling German, in a suit so new that the
creases are definite, and punctuated with an Iron Cross in cardboard.
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.

"After all," says Volpatte, "it is pretty much like that you know!"

"Why, yes, of course!"

And these were their first words of false swearing that day.

* * * * *

We go into the Cafe de l'Industrie et des Fleurs. A roadway of matting
clothes the middle of the floor. Painted all the way along the walls,
all the way up the square pillars that support the roof, and on the
front of the counter, there is