BOURGEOIS. There have been immense losses, is it not so?

SUBALTERN (_vaguely_). There are always great losses when one attacks.

BOURGEOIS. Ah! but much greater than one expected--I have seen, I, the wounded coming down the river.

SUBALTERN. I--I have always expected great losses.

BOURGEOIS. "Tis true. There are always great losses when one attacks.

But all goes well, Monsieur, is it not so?

SUBALTERN. It is difficult to estimate the success of an attack until after several weeks. But I think that all goes well.

BOURGEOIS. But yes, the French, they have had a great success, and also the English. The English are wonderful. Their equipment! It is that which astonishes me. Everything is complete. They say that the English have saved France; but the French also, they have saved England, is it not so, Monsieur?

SUBALTERN. But we are saving each other!

BOURGEOIS. Good! We are saving each other! Very good! But after the war, Monsieur, England will fight against France, _hein_?

SUBALTERN. Never!

BOURGEOIS. Never?

SUBALTERN. Never in life!

BOURGEOIS. You think so?

SUBALTERN. We do not love war. We do not seek war. It is only when a nation is so execrable that one is compelled to fight, as have been the Germans, that we make war.

BOURGEOIS. You do not love war, eh? Before the war you had a very small Army, about three hundred thousand, is it not so? And now you have about three million. You do not love war, you others.

SUBALTERN. The Germans thought that they loved war, but I do not believe that they will love it very much longer!

BOURGEOIS. No! The war will give them the stomach-ache. They will love it no longer!

COIFFEUR. But these English, whom did they fight before? The Boers, was it not?

SUBALTERN. Yes, but a great many English think now that it was a _betise_. There was also great provocation. And nevertheless, who knows if there was not in that affair also a German plot?

BOURGEOIS. It is very likely. Then Monsieur thinks that we are true friends, the English and the French?

SUBALTERN. But yes, Monsieur, because we love, both of us, liberty and peace.

XIV

A Pa.s.sING IN JUNE, 1915

PROLOGUE

SCENE. _The parlour of an Auberge._

PERSONS. _A stoist motherly_ MADAME, _a wrinkled fatherly_ MONSIEUR, _and a plain but pleasant_ MA"MSELLE. _Some English soldiers drinking_. CECIL _is talking in French to_ MONSIEUR, _and they are all very friendly_.

MADAME. Alors, vous n"avez pas encore ete aux tranchees?

CECIL. Mais non, Madame, peut-etre ce soir.

(MONSIEUR _and_ MADAME _exchange glances_. CECIL _rises to go._)

CECIL. a Jeudi, Monsieur, Madame, Ma"mselle.

MONSIEUR, MADAME, AND MA"MSELLE (_in chorus_). a Jeudi, Monsieur.

MADAME (_earnestly_). Bon courage, Monsieur!

(_Curtain_)

ACT I. DAWN

CECIL _is discovered lying behind a wall of sandbags. On one side are the sandbags, and on the other an idyllic spring scene, with flowers and orchards seen in the half-light of a spring morning. The dawn breaks gently, and soon bullets begin to ping through the air, flattening themselves against the sandbags, or pa.s.sing over_ CECIL"s _head. He wakes and yawns, and then composes himself with his eyes open._

_Enter Allegorical personages_: FATHER SUN, MOTHER EARTH, _and a chorus of_ GRa.s.sES, POPPIES, CORNFLOWERS, RAGGED ROBINS, DAISIES, BEETLES, BEES, FLIES, _and insects of all kinds._

FATHER SUN.

Wake, children, rub your eyes, Up and dance and sing and play, Not a cloud is in the skies; This is going to be _my_ day.

See the tiny dew-drop glisten In my glancing golden ray; See the shadows dancing, listen To the lark so blithe and gay.

Up, children, dance and play, This is my own festal day.

FLOWERS, BEETLES, ETC.

Dance and sing In a ring, Naughty clouds are chased away; Oh what fun, Father Sun Is going to shine the whole long day.

MOTHER EARTH. That"s right, children. This is the day to grow in; but don"t forget to come home to dinner; I"ve got such a nice dinner for you.

(_The children dance away delightedly, while CECIL watches them, fascinated._)

MOTHER EARTH. What"s this absurd young man doing, sitting behind that ugly wall? Why don"t he sit under a tree if he must sit?

FATHER SUN. Oh, he"s a lunatic! Must be.

(RANDOM BULLET _jumps over the sandbags into the dug-out, and jibbers impotently at_ CECIL, _who glances up at him with a look of disgust._)

RANDOM BULLET. Ping! Ping. It"s me he"s afraid of. He daren"t stir a yard from this wall, or I"d tear his brains out. Ping! Ping!