“Viens donc, saligaud,” growled the agent de police.
The crowd was against the policeman. Their murmurs rose to violent protest on behalf of the poilu.
“C'est un heros, tout de meme. Cinq mois dans les tranches! C'est affreux! Mais oui, il est soul, mais pour—quoi pas! Apres cinq mois sur le front qu'est-ce que cela signifie? Ca n'a aucune importance!”
A dandy French officer of Chasseurs Alpins stepped into the center of the scene and tapped the policeman on the shoulder.
“Leave him alone. Don't you see he is a soldier? Sacred name of God, don't you know that a man like this has helped to save France, while you pigs stand at street corners watching petticoats?”
He stooped to the fallen man and helped him to stand straight.
“Be off with you, mon brave, or there will be trouble for you.”
He beckoned to two of his own Chasseurs and said:
“Look after that poor comrade yonder. He is un peu etoile.”
The crowd applauded. Their sympathy was all for the drunken soldier of France.