“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 purple convolvulus among great scarlet poppies and roses like red cabbages.

“No doubt about it, we’ve got good taste in France,” says Tirette.

“The chap that did all that had a cartload of patience,” Blaire declares as he looks at the rainbow embellishments.

“In these places,” Volpatte adds, “the pleasure of drinking isn’t the only one.”

Paradis informs us that he knows all about cafes.  On Sundays formerly, he frequented cafes as beautiful as this one and even more beautiful.  Only, he explains, that was a long time ago, and he has lost the flavor that they’ve got.  He indicates a little enameled wash-hand basin hanging on the wall and decorated with flowers:  “There’s where one can wash his hands.”  We steer politely towards the basin.  Volpatte signs to Paradis to turn the tap, and says, “Set the waterworks going!”

Then all six of us enter the saloon, whose circumference is already adorned with customers, and install ourselves at a table.

“We’ll have six currant-vermouths, shall we?”

“We could very easily get used to it again, after all,” they repeat.

Some civilians leave their places and come near us.  They whisper, “They’ve all got the Croix de Guerre, Adolphe, you see—–­“—­“Those are real poilus!”