"Now, Angele. Now, Maman. Put it there on the table, Angele. No, hold it higher. Like that. Keep your hands steady, Angele, or how can Maman see? Such a miserable lamp! Does not my uniform look magnificent? I am the real poilu, hein? Something to be proud of, Maman?"
"The real poilu?" The girl questioned softly. "The grandchild of the real poilu, maybe."
"She mocks me, Maman."
"Be quiet, Angele."
"I do not mock, Maman; but I will not have his head turned. The poor little cabbage!"
"See, Maman. She will not stop. Tell her that I fight for France."
For a moment the woman hesitated. They could hear the deep breath she took.
"For France. And for something else, my little son."
With great care the girl placed the lamp on the table.
"Something else, Maman?"