“That was not a fly,” Jean said, with a laugh. “It was a bullet.”
Again and again the hum of those invisible wings made itself heard. The men craned their necks and looked about them with eager interest; their curiosity was uncontrollable—would not allow them to remain quiet.
“See here,” Loubet said mysteriously to Lapoulle, with a view to raise a laugh at the expense of his simple-minded comrade, “when you see a bullet coming toward you you must raise your forefinger before your nose—like that; it divides the air, and the bullet will go by to the right or left.”
“But I can’t see them,” said Lapoulle.
A loud guffaw burst from those near.
“Oh, crickey! he says he can’t see them! Open your garret windows, stupid! See! there’s one—see! there’s another. Didn’t you see that one? It was of the most beautiful green.”
And Lapoulle rolled his eyes and stared, placing his finger before his nose, while Pache fingered the scapular he wore and wished it was large enough to shield his entire person.
Rochas, who had remained on his feet, spoke up and said jocosely:
“Children, there is no objection to your ducking to the shells when you see them coming. As for the bullets, it is useless; they are too numerous!”
At that very instant a soldier in the front rank was struck on the head by a fragment of an exploding shell. There was no outcry; simply a spurt of blood and brain, and all was over.