They had the attractive, wide-awake faces common to Paris boys. They nudged each other.
"It's the 3rd ... just look!"
"My big bruvver's in the 302nd."
Some of them gazed into our eyes saying:
"'Ad a 'ard time, 'aven't yer, but we're sure to wop 'em, ain't we?"
"Wop 'em—rather!" De Valpic retorted joyously.
The passers-by smiled at us, or gave us a friendly wave of the hand. The City greeted us, not as her saviours—Paris did not admit that she was in any danger,—but simply as good children who had suffered for her sake.
The rare trams which were running, began to turn out numbers of Sunday excursionists. A great many had come with their families either on foot, or bicycling, to enjoy the air of their beloved suburb. Not one of them showed the least trace of terror. They were marvellously light-hearted. It was amusing to see the fathers pointing out the preparations for defence to their offspring, the trenches and barricades made of trees placed at intervals along the avenues, and supplying the explanations in a serious or amused tone of voice. The little brats enjoyed the unusual sight. Their eyes were often turned skywards, a Taube was the only thing wanting to make their joy complete.
De Valpic pressed my arm. He was triumphant.
"Well, what do you say to it?"