“Zut! I don’t believe a word of it. That is all talk. They will never come. Mark my words.” Jules wagged a skinny and earth-stained forefinger under Paulette’s nose.
“But it is true, I assure you,” persisted Lucie. “The doctor has just brought the news which he says is an absolute fact.”
“Well, let it be a fact,” responded Jules. “Admit that they will come. What are they? Raw, untrained savages. It will take months if not years to get them into any sort of shape. This hue and cry of ‘the Americans are coming!’ sounds very well to those who are easily fooled, but I, for one, am too wise a bird to be caught with such chaff.”
“A bird indeed,” scoffed Paulette contemptuously; “one of the variety that hisses in the barnyard and whose chief use is to supply feathers for beds.” She turned on her heel, leaving Jules stuttering with rage, and uttering epithets more forcible than polite.
“He is an imbecile, that,” remarked Paulette as she walked away to another part of the field. “I am getting very tired of him. These Americans, when do they come, and how soon will they rid the land of those Boches?”
“I suppose one cannot tell, but the doctor evidently believes it will be soon. I have heard him say that the moral effect upon the exhausted armies would be as great as the physical. He has been talking much of the Americans coming in and has put great faith upon them.”
“Then I suppose one may begin to think of returning home.”
“Oh, Paulette, do you really mean it?”
“Why not. Have I ever decided to remain here for the rest of my life? Not at all. It is well enough, this, but where I was born is better, and it is where I should choose to die.”
“But they say there is nothing there. What shall we do to go back to mere handfuls of earth, holes in the ground?”