“Well! It’s your war!”
“My war?”
“Yes! The war of the upper classes, the officers, the idle people who carry swords!”
“Ah!”
“Certainly it is! You are going to make us kill ourselves to the last man, so that you can be masters afterwards.”
“All the same, mademoiselle, you will keep your father and brothers. Their opinions compel them....”
“Hey? What’s that you say?” interrupted the mutineer. “They have ordered their new boots, and papa refuses to guard the railroad. He wants to go to the front. But it is not for you they fight, ladies and gentlemen, but for France!”
God forgive me, I found nothing to reply. A few minutes later, having descended several steps, she became timid and correct, and leaned against the banister.
“You are going far away, sir.... The sea is terrible!”
“It is my profession.”