“Have you an idea that your sister is in Lille?”
“No,” he said. “No. At least not more than the faintest hope. She is
behind the lines somewhere--anywhere. She went away from home before
the war--she was a singer--and was caught in the tide.”
“No news at all?” I asked.
“Her last letter was from Lille. Or rather a postcard with the Lille
stamp. She said, ‘I am amusing myself well, little brother.’ She and I
were good comrades. I look for her face in the crowds. But she may be
anywhere--Valenciennes, Maubeuge--God knows!”
A shout of “_Vive la France!_” rose from a crowd of people surging up
the street. Pierre Nesle was in the blue uniform of the _chasseur à
pied_, and the people in Lille guessed it was theirs because of its
contrast to our khaki, though the “_horizon bleu_” was so different
from the uniforms worn by the French army of ’14. To them now, on the
day of liberation, Pierre Nesle, our little liaison officer, stood for
the Armies of France, the glory of France. Even the sight of our khaki
did not fill them with such wild enthusiasm. So I lost him again as I
had lost the little American doctor in the surge and whirlpool of the
crowd.