Part 15 (1/2)
”Ah, go on! Didn't Mr. Dumont who used to teach the third grade, draw it all out for us on the blackboard the last time he was home on leave?
What do you take us for? Why he's even got the _Croix de Guerre_ and the 'Bananna.'” [1]
Nor is the _communique_ ignored by these budding heroes. On the contrary, it is read and commented upon with fervour.
In a little side street leading to the Seine, I encountered a ten year old lad, das.h.i.+ng forward, brandis.h.i.+ng the evening paper in his hand.
”Come on, kids, it's time for the _communique_,” he called to a couple of smaller boys who were playing on the opposite curb. The children addressed (one may have been five, the other seven, or thereabouts) immediately abandoned their marbles, and hastened to join their companion, who breathlessly unfolded the sheet.
”Artillery combats in Flanders----” he commenced.
The little fellows opened their big candid eyes, their faces were drawn and grave, in an intense effort of attention. Their mouths gaped unconsciously. One felt their desire to understand, to grasp things that were completely out of reach.
”During the night a spirited attack with hand grenades in the region of the Four de Paris,” continued the reader. ”We progressed slightly to the East of Mort Homme, and took an element of trenches. We captured two machine guns, and made several prisoners.”
”My papa's in Alsace,” piped one listener.
”And mine's in the Somme.”
”That's all right,” inferred the elder. ”Isn't mine at Verdun?” and then proudly, ”And machine gunner at that!”
Then folding his paper and preparing to move on:
”The news is good--we should worry.”
Yes, that's what the little ones understood best of all, ”the news is good,” and a wonderful, broad, angelic smile spread out over their fresh baby faces; a smile so bewitching that I couldn't resist embracing them--much to their surprise.
[Ill.u.s.tration: A COURTYARD IN MONTMARTRE]
”I just must kiss you,” I explained, ”because the news is good!”
From one end to the other of the entire social scale the children have this self same spirit.
Seated at the dining-room table, a big spot of violet ink on one cheek, I found little Jules Gauthier carefully copying something in a note book.
”What are you doing there, Jules?”
”Writing in my book, Madame.”
”What are you writing?”
”About the war, everything I can remember.”
At that particular moment he was inscribing an anecdote which he had just heard some one telling in his mother's drawing room.
”The President of the Republic once asked General de Castelnau, 'Well, General, what shall you do after the war is over?'
”'Weep for my sons, Mr. President.'”
”But, Jules, why do you write such things?” I queried.