“That is it. Also, he had mounted his hat!”
“How did he do that?”
“The usual way. But it was a long hat, a hat of grande tenue—like a pot of confiture.”
“Mademoiselle, this will not do. I cannot settle this matter here and now, I must pass on all the papers to my superior officer, who will place them with the proper authority. They will ask ‘Is there no procès-verbal?’ Am I to say: ‘The Maire went to make one. He put on his hat and the troops began to sing.’ It sounds like a joke.”
“Ah, you others, you are always the ones to laugh. It was just exactly as I have said. They sang!”
“But you told me just now that they were tired out!”
“Quite true!”
“It will never sound so. What did they sing?”
“Old Hindenburg has bought a hat!”
In a moment Dormer was convinced. The words painted, framed and hung the picture for him. He had just been beginning to hope that the whole thing would break down from sheer improbability. He now saw it stamped and certified with eternal truth. There was no need for her to add: “They were not gay, you understand, they were exalté!”