"Yes, yes, they're coming. What is that the band plays? There's the Garde Républicaine, and the music—listen, babies! And now it is Belgian music. There are the Belgians—see the people run out to give them flowers! There are the mitrailleuses and the Lanciers and the Cyclistes!"
"Mummy, I've got a bicycle too, haven't I; and I can ride it well, can't I?"
"Now the English, with their music! Cricri, do keep still and let Miss see. How beautifully they march! Aren't you proud, Miss? There are the Ansacs, Fafa; and look at the Indians! The street is carpeted with flowers: they cannot pick them up, they walk over them. There are the Russians. Look, babies, the little boys and girls from the crowd run out and pick up the flowers to give them! Listen, the Russian music sounds like great seas and winds in forests. It will be our own men coming now, Fafa."
"Mummy, oh, mummy! I can't see the little girl any more!"
"Now it will be our own men coming! Look, look, babies, to see the very first of them! There's our own music—listen."
Holding Fafa close against her shoulder, she leaned out past him over the window-ledge, her eyes lighted with that flame one knows in soldiers' eyes.
"They will be our own men, who have fought for us, who will go back to fight for us. Fafa, think of it! Here they are, their music—oh, oh, it is the Chant du Départ!"
"Mummy, do you think we'll never any more see the little girl with the pink shoes?"