We understand, we feel quite certain that they will be ours again—but later—when this shall all be over—if God spares them to return.
At that same instant two boys appeared at the entrance to the courtyard. They may have been respectively ten and twelve years of age. The perspiration trickled from their faces, and they were bending beneath the weight of a huge bundle each carried on his back.
"Hello, there, fellows," called one of them.
A soldier appeared on the threshold.
"Here Lefranc—here are your two boxes of sardines, and your snuff. There isn't any more plum jam to be had. Oh, yes, and here's your writing paper."
The child scribbled something in an old account book.
"That makes fifty-three sous," he finally announced.
Other soldiers now came up.
The boys were soon surrounded by a group of eager gesticulating poilus.
"Oh, shut up, can't you? How can a fellow think if you all scream at once? Here—Mimile"—and he turned to his aid. "Don't you give 'em a thing."