joined forces with
Julius Caesar to fight the Crusaders. This here is sacred ground."

In the evening, a number of the battery, located the _buvette_ that
carried across its curtained front the gold lettered sign _bar
Parisian_. It was a find. Some thirty American artillerymen crowded
around the tables.

Cigarette smoke filled the low-ceilinged room with blue layers, through
which the lamp light shone. In one corner stood a mechanical piano which
swallowed big copper sous and gave out discord's metallic melody. It was
of an American make and the best number on its printed programme was
"Aren't you Coming Back to Old Virginia, Molly?" Sous followed sous into
this howitzer of harmony and it knew no rest that night. Everybody
joined in and helped it out on the choruses.

Things were going fine when the door opened at about nine thirty, and
there stood two members of the American Provost Guard. They carried with
them two orders. One instructed Madame, the proprietress, to dispense no
more red ink or beer to American soldiers that night, and the other was
a direction to all Americans around the table to get back to their
billets for the night.

The bunch left with reluctance but without a grumble. It was warm and
comfortable within the _bar Parisian_ and Madame's smiles and red wine
and beer and Camembert cheese composed the Broadway of many recent
dreams. But they left without complaint.

They made their rollicking departure, returning Madame's parting smiles,
gallantly lifting their steel helmets and showering her with vociferous
"bong swore's." And--well it simply must be told. She kissed the last
one out out the door and, turning, wiped away a tear with the corner of
her apron. Madame had seen youth on the way to the front before.

The billets were comfortable. Some were better than others. Picket line
details slept in their blankets in the hay over the stables. Gun crews
drew beds and pallets on the floor in occupied houses. In these homes
there was always that hour before retirement for the night when the old
men and remaining women of the French household and their several
military guests billeted in the place, would gather about the fireplace
in the kitchen and regale one another with stories, recounted by the
murder of French and English languages and a wealth of pantomime.

Louise, the eighteen-year-old daughter of the town-crier--he who daily
beat the drum in front of the Hotel de Ville and read lengthy
b