“General Bazain is most eager to meet you, and has the leisure at this moment,” the Frenchman announced.

He led his guests through the adjoining room, where half a dozen younger French officers rose hastily, standing at salute.  Then on into a third room, just over the sill of which Captain Ribaut halted, bringing his heels quickly together as he called out: 

“General Bazain, I have the honor to present to you four American
officers, Major-----”

And so on, through the list of names.  The French divisional commander bowed courteously four separate times, taking each American officer by the hand with both his own, and finding something wholly courteous to say.  He spoke in French, a tongue that only Major Wells and Captain Prescott understood well.

“My division is greatly honored, Messieurs les Officers,” General Bazain continued when he had seen to the seating of his callers and had resumed his own chair behind a desk on which were spread many maps and documents.

“You have been having a smart fight this afternoon, sir?” inquired Major Wells.

“Ah, yes, for some reason, the Huns have been trying to break through my division this afternoon, but they have not yet succeeded, nor will they,” General Bazain added, his eyes flashing grimly.

He was a little man, short and thin, his hair well sprinkled with gray.  He looked like one whom more than three years of war had borne down with cares, yet his eyes were bright and his shoulders squared splendidly whenever he stood.

“Here is a map of the divisional front, gentlemen, if you care to draw your chairs closer and look it over,” proposed the general.  “This shows not only our lines, but as much as we know of the enemy lines facing us.  And I believe,” he added, with another flash of pride, “that we know all there is to know of their lines for a kilometer back, except whatever may have been added since dark yesterday.  We-----”

He was interrupted by an explosion that shook the house.  It sounded over their heads on the floor above.

“We have excellent air service at this point,” General Bazain went on, his attention not wavering from the map.  “And at this point, as you will see, we have five lines of trenches, one behind another, instead of three.  It would take the Hun an uncommonly long time to drive my brave fellows back out of our five lines of trenches.”

There followed a rapid description of the work of the division on that sector during the last four months.  The two present first lines of trench had been taken from the Germans.  Plans were now under way to stage a series of assaults which, it was hoped, would drive the Huns out of their three present first lines of trench and add them to the French system.

An officer wearing the emblem of the French medical service opened the door and glanced in.

“My general, you were not hurt by that bomb?” he cried anxiously.