ompensations! How superb a charge must be, eh? All those masses of men
advancing like they do in a holiday procession, and the trumpets
playing a rousing air in the fields! And the dear little soldiers that
can't be held back and shouting, 'Vive la France!' and even laughing as
they die! Ah! we others, we're not in honor's way like you are. My
husband is a clerk at the Prefecture, and just now he's got a holiday
to treat his rheumatism."

"I should very much have liked to be a soldier," said the gentleman,
"but I've no luck. The head of my office can't get on without me."

People go and come, elbowing and disappearing behind each other. The
waiters worm their way through with their fragile and sparkling
burdens--green, red or bright yellow, with a white border. The grating
of feet on the sanded floor mingles with the exclamations of the
regular customers as they recognize each other, some standing, others
leaning on their elbows, amid the sound of glasses and dominoes pushed
along the tables. In the background, around the seductive shock of
ivory balls, a crowding circle of spectators emits classical
pleasantries.

"Every man to his trade, mon brave," says a man at the other end of the
table whose face is adorned with powerful colors, addressing Tirette
directly; "you are heroes. On our side, we are working in the economic
life of the country. It is a struggle like yours. I am useful--I don't
say more useful than you, but equally so."

And I see Tirette through the cigar-smoke making round eyes, and in the
hubbub I can hardly hear the reply of his humble and dumbfounded
voice--Tirette, the funny man of the squad!--"Yes, that's true; every
man to his trade."

Furtively we stole away.

* * * * *

We are almost silent as we leave the Cafe des Fleurs. It seems as if we
no longer know how to talk. Something like discontent irritates my
comrades and knits their brows. They look as if they are becoming aware
that they have not done their duty at an important juncture.

"Fine lot of gibberish they've talked to us, the beasts!" Tirette
growls at last with a rancor that gathers strength the more we unite
and collect ourselves again.

"We ought to have got beastly drunk to-day!" replies Paradis brutally.

We walk without a word spoken. Then, after a time, "They're a lot of
idiots, filthy idiots," Tirette goes on; "they tried to cod us, but I'm
not on; if I see them again," he says, with a cres