"You know that we are going to war?"
"Can it be possible?" exclaimed Philomène. "Who with?"
"Why, with the Prussians," answered Jacques. "Yes, on account of one of their princes, who wishes to be King of Spain. Yesterday in the Chamber they were occupied with nothing else."
Then she was in despair.
"Ah! well! That's a nice thing," said she. "They bothered us enough with their elections, their plebiscite, and their riots at Paris! I say, if they do fight, will they take away all the men?"
"Oh! as to us, we are shunted! They cannot disorganise the railways. Only we shall have a warm time, on account of the transport of troops and provisions! Anyhow, if it happens, everyone will have to do his duty."
Thereupon, he rose, noticing that she was becoming too familiar, and that Pecqueux perceived it. Indeed, the face of the latter had become crimson, and he was already clenching his fists.
"It is time for bed," said Jacques. "Let us be off."
"Yes, that will be the better thing to do," stammered the fireman.
He had grasped the arm of Philomène, and squeezed it fit to break it. Restraining a cry of agony, she contented herself with whispering in the ear of the driver, while the other finished his glass in a fury: