"Mais, Monsieur! Anglais? Ce n'est pas possible!"
"C'est vrai, assurément."
"Mais, L'Armée Anglaise porte toujours les habits rouges!"
The Subaltern laughed outright. This simple fellow actually believed that the English fought in scarlet. Even now he was not thoroughly convinced that they really were English. Ignorance goes hand in hand with obstinacy, and these simple old peasant folk defended their stupidity with a veritable wall of impenetrable incredulity.
The Subaltern was still laboriously engaged in explaining matters to the man, when part of the Headquarter's Staff trotted up the road with a clatter and a swing and scurry that looked as if they were wanted very urgently on the left. It was the first time during the campaign that he had seen the Corps Commander and the Chief of the General Staff on horseback.
It must have been about five o'clock when he received a message to concentrate on the main road. On the way he was accosted by a woman perfectly distraught with grief, who explained that two days ago her little son had disappeared into "ce bois là" never to come out again.
"Si votre fils vive encore, il reviendra, bien sûr, Madame. S'il est mort, moi, je ne peux pas vous aider." Terrible to relate, the sight of such grief annoyed rather than saddened him.
The advance was continued until it was quite dark, when the Battalion denuded the usual hayrick, and "dossed down" in the usual stubble field.