“C’est une incendie,” she wailed staccato. “Quel malheur!”
So Paris was on fire.
As we watched two big puffs of white smoke rose over the munitions factory, spread into a cloud, drifted slowly toward us. The night nurse sniffed, then shut the window hurriedly.
“La gaz,” she whispered. I questioned it but left the window shut.
An aeroplane swung low over the munitions factory, so near that it looked like a great lazy fish with the rose light from below shining on its belly. Was it friend or enemy?
The bombs were dropping close again. One could see the flashes and feel the jar of the explosions which made the windows rattle.
“Oh les sales Boches!”
“Oh la la!”
The agonized wails sounded half stifled from beneath the mattresses.
“Taisez! Écoutez!” It was the night nurse’s voice.