It was a fête day, and we had two hours for recreation. We were marching in procession along the wall which skirts the railway on the left bank of the Seine, and as we were burying my pet lizard we were chanting the “De Profundis.” About twenty of my little playfellows were following me, when suddenly a soldier’s shako fell at my feet.
“What’s that?” called out one of the girls.
“A soldier’s shako.”
“Did it come from over the wall?”
“Yes, yes. Listen. There’s a quarrel going on!”
We were suddenly silent, listening with all our ears.
“Don’t be stupid! It’s idiotic! It’s the Grand-Champs Convent!”
“How am I to get my shako back?”
These were the words we overheard, and then, as a soldier suddenly appeared astride on our wall, there were shrieks from the terrified children and angry exclamations from the nuns. In a second we were all about twenty yards away from the wall, like a group of frightened sparrows flying off to land a little farther away, inquisitive, and very much on the alert.
“Have you seen my shako, young ladies?” called out the unfortunate soldier, in a beseeching tone.