old woman, wearing the universal black, came up
and spoke to the staff officer. A basket was slung
over her arm. Evidently she was going marketing.
"Pardon me, Monsieur le Capitain," she said, "I am a little confused. The hour of the bombardment remains the same? The Rue de la is safe at this hour?"
We smiled, but the captain, who was accustomed to such queries, replied seriously:
“The hour is unchanged, but I wouldn't advise madame. The Rue de la—is likely to be unpleasant at any time."
She shrugged her shoulders—that invariable gesture that has acquired a quality of renunciation.
“ It makes no difference. Another route will do as well. One must order one's life according to the clock of the shells."
And she wandered away, her basket resting comfortably in the crook of her elbow.
