sound—­and other musicians followed him, so that often when I came up the Rue Royale or along quiet streets between the boulevards, I was tempted into the courts by the tinkle of guitars and women’s voices singing some ballad of the war with a wonderful spirit and rhythm which set the pulses beating at a quicker pace.  In the luncheon hour crowds of midinettes surrounded the singers, joining sometimes in the choruses, squealing with laughter at jests in verse not to be translated in sober English prose and finding a little moisture in their eyes after a song of sentiment which reminded them of the price which must be paid for glory by young men for whose homecoming they had waited through the winter and the spring.

11

No German soldier came through the gates of Paris, and no German guns smashed a way through the outer fortifications.  But now and then an enemy came over the gates and high above the ramparts, a winged messenger of death, coming very swiftly through the sky, killing a few mortals down below and then retreating into the hiding-places behind the clouds.  There were not many people who saw the “Taube”—­the German dove—­make its swoop and hurl its fire-balls.  There was just a speck in the sky, a glint of metal, and the far-humming of an aerial engine.  Perhaps it was a French aviator coming back from a reconnaissance over the enemy’s lines on the Aisne, or taking a joy ride over Paris to stretch his wings.  The little shop-girls looked up and thought how fine it would be to go riding with him, as high as the stars—­with one of those keen profiled men who have such roguish eyes when they come to earth.  Frenchmen strolling down the boulevards glanced skywards and smiled.  They were brave lads who defended the air of Paris.  No Boche would dare to poke the beak of his engine above the housetops.  But one or two men were uneasy and stood with strained eyes.  There was something peculiar about the cut of those wings en haut.  They seemed to bend back at the tips, unlike a Bleriot, with its straight spread of canvas.

“Sapristi! une Taube! ...  Attention, mon vieux!” In some side streets of Paris a hard thing hit the earth and opened it with a crash.  A woman crossing the road with a little girl—­she had just slipped out of her courtyard to buy some milk—­felt the ground rise up and hit her in the face.  It was very curious.  Such a thing had never happened to her before.  “Suzette?” She moaned and cried, “Suzette?” But Suzette did not answer.  The child was lying sideways, with her face against the kerbstone.  Her white frock was crimsoning with a deep and spreading stain.  Something had happened to one of her legs.  It was broken and crumpled up, like a bird’s claw.