Now the streets of Paris were assailed by the colour of olive drab, the
twang of Yankee accents, the music of Broadway songs. Hugo watched the
first parade with eyes somewhat proud and not a little sombre. Each
shuffling step seemed to ask a rhythmic question. Who would not return
to Paris? Who would return once and not again? Who would be blind? Who
would be hideous? Who would be armless, legless, who would wear silver
plates and leather props for his declining years? Hugo wondered, and,
looking into those sometimes stern and sometimes ribald faces, he saw
that they had not yet commenced to wonder.
They did not know the hammer and shock of falling shells and the jelly
and putty which men became. They chafed and bantered and stormed every
café and cocotte impartially, recklessly. Even the Legion had been more
grim and better prepared for the iron feet of war. They fell upon Hugo
with their atrocious French--two young men who wanted a drink and could
not make the bar-tender understand.
"Hey, _fransay_," they called to him, "_comment dire que nous voulez des
choses boire?_"