“In what way were the troops lacking in respect?”
“They sang. They sang—casse-tête—enough to split your head, all the way to the village!”
“Oh, they were on the move, were they?”
“It was pitiable, I assure you, sir, it was shameful to see. Ces pauvres êtres. They hardly had any sleep. Only a few hours. Then it seems the Bosche made a counter-attack, and paff! here comes a motor-cyclist, and they were obliged to wake up and fall in. Some of them could only stand up with difficulty. But at length, they were ready; then the Maire came. We had sent for him d’urgence, when we saw the troops were going, because you can’t make a procès-verbal of a person who is no longer there!”
“No, quite right. But why did they sing?”
“Ah, ça tombait d’accord. Just as the officer gives the word, the Maire arrives. We had informed him it was a crime of violence, and he had taken it very serious. He is old, our Maire. He had put on his—écharpe.”
“What is that?”
She made a vivid gesture with her hands.
“It goes so! It is tricolour. It is the Maire’s official dress!”
“Ah, his official scarf!”