Outside the cafés, at the little tables, wine was flowing like water. One glass after another flung down with a toast to France. They didn't stop at that. I seen a little girl spring up on a table and hold her glass high; all the folks at nearby tables jumped to their feet, cheering her. I couldn't hear what she said, but suddenly she straightened up and began singing the "Marseillaise." Lord! The whole town caught up the tune—it came from everywhere. Women in open windows above the street, leaning way out over the sills, sang it; children in the street piped up; there wasn't no one too young or too old to join in.
The boys marching by grinned at her as they shouted it, and she waved to them.
At a crossing I caught sight of our little old woman. She was shelling out all the fruit on her stand to the boys as they passed. The tears was rolling down her cheeks, but she smiled at them just the same.
I didn't see her granddaughter until some time later; then I found her with a fellow who was dragging on his uniform coat and talking to her at the same time. She helped him fasten it, her eyes on his face. I never seen anyone look so hard at a man—as if she could eat him up with her eyes. When he left her she stood staring after him. I wormed my way in through the crowd until I got alongside of her and I took her arm, but she didn't seem to know I was there.
Bulletins was flashed every few minutes. No sooner would one get posted up than they would tear it down to make room for another. Above the roar of voices rang out the call to arms, and always from no place in particular men and men and men came pouring, keen to get into the Big Scrap.
You couldn't take a train if you wanted to. Everything was commandeered for the "military," as they call it over there.
The sun went down and the street lamps began to wink at you and still the excitement raged. Bulletins—crowds—trumpets—voices—soldiers arriving from Monte Carlo and a new set of cheers for them. No sleep for nobody, just moving through the packed streets listening to a snatch of conversation here and a snatch there.
And every passenger coach and freight train jammed with soldiers on their way to the concentration camp. Those who had any, wore the old French uniform—you know, the red pants and blue coats—great colors, but say, what cruel targets for Boche bullets they turned out to be!
Next day the cry went up for horses—they needed horses, and they got them. That's the Frenchies' spirit for you. Nothing is too much to do for their beloved country. Every farmer with a four-legged animal drove into Nice and gave him up gladly, and what's more brought in all his garden produce for the boys.
It was like a horse mart. I never seen so many sweating, rearing, stamping brutes. One farmer drove in a little blind mare he'd raised from a colt. Rummiest horse I ever seen. Wind-broke, with a coat that looked like the moths got into it. The old man seemed pretty fond of her, for he talked to her considerable before he parted from her. He didn't pay no attention to the crowd looking on, only he just kept whispering in her ear and stroking her nose. After a while he turned her over to the officer in charge.