Another wine-shop, and the same scene: strikers and soldiers fraternising. Says one of the former: “Let us have another coffee; for to-night we may be fighting again.” Replies a cuirassier: “One never knows. But remember we are the stronger.” Officers passing down the street glance into the open doors of the wine-shops, and smile indulgently at the strange spectacle. “The General!” suddenly cries a navvy. And the General it is: a tall, slim man, keen-eyed, grey-headed, dignified. After looking up and down the street, he enters a café with three officers. Coffee and a liqueur for M. le Général. A penny cigar for M. le Général. A dozen navvies crowd into the café, sit down, and scrutinise M. le Général. He smiles, then resumes his conversation with the officers. But he rises all of a sudden to shake hands warmly with the Captain of the cuirassiers who was thrown off his horse by half a paving-stone in yesterday’s conflict. The Captain’s head is bandaged; one sees only his nose and his ears, and his left hand is in a sling.
“Ça va mieux?” asks the General.
“Ce n’est rien, mon Général,” replies the Captain.
“It was not his fault. And he saluted the body of our comrade,” says a navvy, of the General.
“He must suffer, but he does not show it. And he looks sympathetic,” says another striker, of the Captain.
Amazing this good-fellowship! Only in France could it be witnessed, and for the reason that in France every man is, or has been, a soldier. The officers call their men “my children.” The officers also call the strikers “my children”; how often, down at bleak, tragical Courrières, did I hear them implore the miners to retreat, whilst the flints and bricks were flying savagely about them; and how often were the three bugle calls sounded, when, according to stern military law, they should have been sounded but once! “My children,” cried an old Colonel at Courrières, “for the love of heaven, retire. It will break our hearts to shoot. Once again, for the love of heaven, retire.”
Such then is the condition, the temper of Villeneuve-St-Georges to-day: twenty-four hours after the battle. Nor will the battle be resumed. The strike of the sandpit men—like all strikes in France—has been quashed by the soldiers. Only memories remain, and relics, and landmarks. By the side of the street lies the debris of the barricades. On the walls are dents, scratches, holes made by the bullets. Now and again an injured man, soldier or striker, more or less bandaged, passes by. In the wine-shops and cafés, the men in uniform and the men in the baggy blue trousers continue to discuss yesterday’s conflict over their coffee, and fraternise.