"It is still the flower of your youth that you can put into the parade. Ours fell là-bas long ago."
After the crowd began to disperse, we made our way across the Avenue to get the children. As I brought them out through the vestibule a soldier caught sight of us. He cried:
"Gosh, these ain't no tadpoles!"
When the children acknowledged to being Americans, he asked Mimi whether she liked rats.
"Yas, I do," said Mimi.
"You wait there a minute. I got a rat I bought from a poilu. It's a tame one."
The soldier brought his rat and did wonderful stunts with it. Mimi squealed when the rat ran from the soldier's arm to hers and up on her head. She didn't know whether to like it or be afraid. But the rat evidently won, for when asked later what she liked best about the parade, she put that rat ahead of Pershing and Foch.
We never thanked our lucky stars for the view of Paris from our balcony more than on the evening of the Quatorze of victory. To see all the wonders of the illuminations we did not need to leave our apartment. From every park roman candles and rockets burst into pots of flowers, constellations, the flags of the Allies. The dome of the Panthéon glowed red. Sacré Coeur stood out green and pink and white against the northern sky. Revolving shafts of red, white and blue came from the Tour Eiffel. Church bells rang and on every street corner there was music.
The dear old custom of the night of the Quatorze was revived. We looked down at the lanterns across the Boulevard Raspail at the intersection of the Boulevard du Montparnasse. Tables and chairs overflowed from the side-walk into the street. But there was a large open place around the impromptu band-stand. People were dancing and the music never stopped.
We heard the call. And we obeyed. When we reached the corner and got into the street, Herbert held out his arms.