A young artillery officer came toward me. He was a handsome man with a bit of a swagger in spite of his limp. I saw his eyes roving the crowd restlessly in search of someone. Suddenly he caught sight of me.
"Ah! An American! What joy! Vive L'Amerique!" he shouted.
I thanked him. I told him my name and he told me his. It was Louis du Frere, and he lived at Faubourg St. Germain. He was just back from the trenches on a precious leave of seven days. Wounded? He shrugged. But, yes, fifteen times so far, and what of that?
I stared at him. Wounded fifteen times and yet eager to go back! Spirit of France, you are indomitable!
He excused himself as he scanned the crowd. His sister was to meet him. She was there somewhere. She never failed him. Ah, yes! He had found her. . . .
I turned to see a little black-clad figure rush into his arms and cling to him as though she could never let him go. He spoke to her gently.
"Angele," he said, "this gentleman is a great officer of the American navy. Tell him how glad you are to welcome him to France."
At that she whirled and since then I have never been able to see a red poppy without thinking of her. I don't remember what I said in my very limited French, but her brother broke in to explain that she had lost her young husband at the battle of the Marne and he ended up by announcing to her that I was going to spend the rest of my liberty as their guest.
I tried to protest, to insist that I had no intention of thrusting my presence upon them for eleven days. But he took my refusal with the air of a hurt child and when Angele joined her pleas with his, I succumbed. I let du Frere hail a cab and we all piled in. I gathered up my few possessions at the hotel and climbed aboard again, and we rumbled through the streets of Paris toward St. Germain, Angele clinging to her brother's arm and listening with a wrapt look on her face to his gay comments on trench life.