“Mais, messieurs, je n’ai rien! Trés-difficile d’obtenir quoi que ce soit depuis la guerre! Figuerez-vous, une livre de sucre pour une personne par mois! Et du pain! O là là! C’est terrible, vous comprenz?” (Oh, messieurs, I have very little. Too difficult to get things since the war started. One pound of sugar a person for a month, a ration of bread. It’s terrible, you understand?), answered the woman, evasively.
“Oui, madame, compree; but comrade, moi, no monjay. Beaucoup hungry. Beaucoup fatigue. Compree?” questioned McGee, tapping his stomach as if it were an empty bag.
“Oui,” answered the madame, solemnly.
“Omelette, pom du tear fritz, trey-bon vous, serve comrade, moi, s’il vous plate.” Jimmy did his darnest to tell her what he was thinking.
She understood him after the fashion of the French people who had been near American soldiers before. Most of the peasants in the regions where many American soldiers were located soon learned to speak their native French just as brokenly as the Americans. It was necessary to do so in order that the likes of Jimmy McGee might compree just a little bit.
After much puffing and running around, the woman finally set a table for her hungry guests. A fifteen-egg omelet, beaucoup French-fried potatoes, what was left of Jimmy’s bread, a dish of white cheese, and a tall bottle of wine awaited the offensive of the two Americans.
“Ah, madame,” said McGee, licking his chops, “I’ll say that’s the darb——”
“Qu’est-ce qu’il dit?” (What did you say?)
“Oh, I said its mighty bon—beaucoup monjay, you compree moi?”
The peasant woman smiled at him as if she understood, and Jimmy made a dive into the middle of the big yellow omelet.