Blanche. Where else should Jeanne be but on her pedestal?
Fred [stirring]. Revelley again before you've hardly closed your blooming eyes. [Sits up sharply on seeing Blanche.] Hullo! You're—you're—[Turns to Paul.] Why, cockey, it wasn't a yarn. The statues do walk about in France. There's one of them doing it.
Paul. You saw her too?
Fred. Saw her? Of course I seen her. She's there. Ain't you and me been talking familiar with her for the last ten minutes?
Paul. Yes, with Jeanne.
Fred. Took my 'and she did, and chanced the dirt.
Blanche. You have been dreaming, monsieur. C'était une rêverie.
Fred. Who's raving? Well, it may be raving, but we all raved together. You and me and 'im, and I'll eat my bayonet raw if you didn't stand there and take us by the hands and tell us you were that there Joan of Arc what used to tell old Bonaparte what to do when he was in an 'ole.
Blanche. It was not I. There is the statue, monsieur. [Points to it.]
Fred. Where? [Looks.] Well, that's queer. You're the dead spit and image of 'er, too. And 'ere, 'ere, cockey! [Takes Paul's arm excitedly.]