Anxious to create a feeling of sympathy, he exhibits his wound.
I say to him—
"Mon garçon, you shouldn't have gone to war."
No sooner has one train left the station than another steams up; for several hours the wounded file past without a break.
At five in the evening the lieutenant, after a long conversation with the station-master, announces that the detachment is to cross Paris. Delirious joy.
We reach the Gare de Lyons and, shouldering arms, proceed in columns of fours to the Gare Saint-Lazare.
Our men hail every taxi-cab driver they see.
"I say, old man, just go and tell my wife ... or my mother ... or my sister, will you? She lives in such a street, such a number. Hurry up and bring her along."
"All right!"