“You mean to prison?” Tom asked. “Just for singing the Marsellaise! Why, the hand-organs play that where I live!”
“Ah, yess—Americ’! In Alsace, even before ze war—you sing ze Marsellaise, t’ree days you go to ze zhail. You haf’ a book printed in ze French—feefty marks you must pay!” He waived his cigarette, as if it might have been a deadly sword, and hurled it over the rail.
“After Germany took Alsace-Lorraine away from France,” said Tom, unmoved, “and began treating the French people that way, I should think lots of ’em would have moved to France.”
“Many—yess; but some, no. My pappa had a veenyard. Many years ziss veenyard is owned by my people—my anceestors. Even ze village is name for my family—Lateur. You know ze Franco-Prussian War—when Zhermany take Alsace-Lorraine—yess?”
“Yes,” said Tom.
“My pappa fight for France. Hees arm he lose. When it is over and Alsace is lost, he haf’ lost more than hees arm. Hees spirit! Where can he go? Away from ze veenyard? Here he hass lived—always.”
“I understand,” said Tom.
“Yess,” said Frenchy with great satisfaction. “Zat is how eet is—you will understand. My pappa cannot go. Zis is hees home. So he stay—stay under ze Zhermans. Ah! For everything, everything, we must pay ze tax. Five hundred soldiers, zey keep, always—in zis little village—and only seven hundred people. Ziss is ze way. Ugh! Even ze name zey change—Dundgart! Ugh!”
“I don’t like it as well as Lethure,” said matter-of-fact Tom.
Frenchy laughed at Tom’s pronunciation. “Zis is how you say—Le-teur. See? I will teach you ze French.”