The city had broken out into flags. Every window sported one. Every person carried one. None of your miniature, buttonhole affairs; but a good, flapping tricolour, or Union Jack, or Stars and Stripes, three feet square, carried over the shoulder on a pole six feet long.
Every one felt it incumbent upon him to show some slight civility to his neighbour. Soldiers saluted civilians; civilians embraced soldiers. Young military gentlemen kissed young ladies of the dressmaking persuasion. Exuberant daughters of Gaul joined hands and danced in a ring round embarrassed Anglo-Saxon officers, or tweaked the tails of the Glengarry bonnets of passing “Jocks.” At each porte-cochère snuffy concierges were phlegmatically tearing down the printed signs tacked upon the outer doors—Abri, 25 places—with an almost genial, “Et voilà!” A spirit of brotherly love prevailed: Boone and Frances saw a Paris taxi-driver distinctly slow down to avoid running over two young ladies whose cavaliers were playfully endeavouring to push them under his front wheels.
Presently an aged man in a blue blouse and a species of yachting-cap accosted them.
“Américain?” he demanded.
“Oui,” admitted Boone cautiously. He had already stalled off more than one would-be kisser.
“Blessé!” added Frances proudly.
The old gentleman shook hands with both of them, several times. Tears were running down his cheeks.
“Et maintenant,” he told them, “mon fils reviendra!”
And he hobbled off, to spread the great news elsewhere.
By the afternoon Paris had resolved itself into processions, mainly of soldiers and girls intertwined. Nearly everybody was singing. The French sang the Marseillaise, or Madelon. The English-speaking races devoted their energy, which was considerable, to a ditty with the mysterious refrain—