Finally an empty fiacre came along and I signaled the driver, jumping aboard at the same moment. Just as an hour earlier when I signaled a cab, a Frenchman stepped in at the opposite side. Only, this time, the Frenchman wasted no words concerning his rights to the carriage.
He bowed. "I go to the Place de l'Opera," he said pleasantly.
I bowed. "I go to exactly the same spot," I replied tactfully.
We sat down and he directed the driver. We remained silent as we drove down the Cours la Reine until we came opposite the Esplanade of the Invalides. The sun was setting behind the golden dome over the tomb of Napoleon. Then my companion spoke:
"I will take the subway at the Opera station and go to my home. It will be the last time. I join my regiment to-morrow."
I looked at him for a moment, then asked curiously: "How do you feel about it? Tell me—are you glad—and are you confident?"
He looked me straight in the eye. "I am glad," he answered. "We are all glad—glad that the waiting and the disappointments, the humiliations of forty-four years, are over."
"And will you win—you think?"
"I do not know, but we will fight well—that is all I can say, and this time we are not fighting alone."