“A German helmet, Madame.”
“Did you get that?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Did you get it yourself?”
“Certainly, Madame.”
“Here, take this, go back and get some more.” She passed her pocketbook over to the poilu.
The soldier stared; the crowd stared; but the soldier was a thoroughbred. Crooking his elbow and sticking the helmet out on his index finger, he bowed:
“Will Madame give me pleasure by accepting the helmet?”
Would she! Boche helmets were scarce in those days. Beautiful Mademoiselles in that crowd would have given their souls to possess such a treasure! Neither they nor I know Madame. Her eyes looked level into those of the soldier as she demanded:
“You are not a Parisian?”