His little rather hard face trembled within
itself. I thought for a second he was going to throw a fit at my
feet--instead of doing which he replied pettishly, in a sunken bright
whisper:
"To keep us going forward. At times a company would drop its guns and
turn to run. Pupupupupupupupup ..." his short unlovely arms described
gently the swinging of a _mitrailleuse_ ... "finish. The Belgian
soldiers to left and right of them took the hint. If they did
not--pupupupupupup.... O we went forward. Yes. _Vive le patriotisme._"
And he rose with a gesture which seemed to brush away these painful
trifles from his memory, crossed the end of the room with short rapid
steps, and began talking to his best friend Judas, who was at that moment
engaged in training his wobbly mustachios.... Toward the close of my
visit to La Ferte the Guard Champetre was really happy for a period of
two days--during which time he moved in the society of a rich,
intelligent, mistakenly arrested and completely disagreeable youth in
bone spectacles, copious hair and spiral putees, whom B. and I partially
contented ourselves by naming Jo Jo The Lion Faced Boy. Had the charges
against Jo Jo been stronger my tale would have been longer--fortunately
for _tout le monde_ they had no basis; and back went Jo Jo to his native
Paris, leaving the Guard Champetre with Judas and attacks of only
occasionally interesting despair.
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