"Éclat d'obus," he replied, as if that were the whole story. After a pause he added, "Douaumont—yesterday."
I thought of the shells I had seen bursting over the fort.
"Do you put salt in chocolate?" he asked professionally.
"Not as a rule," I replied.
"It improves it," he pursued, as if he were revealing a confidential dogma. "The Boche bread is bad, very bad, much worse than a year ago. Full of crumbles and lumps. Dégoûtant!"
The ambulance rolled up to the evacuation station, and my pastry cook alighted.
"When the war is over, come to my shop," he whispered benevolently, "and you shall have some tartes aux pommes à la mode de Saint-Denis with my wife and me."
"With fresh cream?" I asked.
"Of course," he replied seriously.
I accepted gratefully, and the good old soul gave me his address.