The fact is that the children and the members of the working gang fraternize. Some of the poor women secretly offer us an apple or an egg. The old men salute us humbly. One of us was addressed as “Most honoured sir,” another as “Highly well-born sir.” Even those who have been discharged from service on account of severe wounds, men with empty sleeves and horribly scarred faces, no longer glare at us with the murderous hatred they showed at the outset. At Ingolstadt, when we are waiting for our parcels in the square in front of the _Kommandantur_, civilians come and go before our group and converse with us. The women are particularly attentive. They recognize monsieur Pierre, “who had a frightful wound, and who, God be thanked, is now quite well again”; monsieur Paul, “who …”; monsieur Jacques, “who …” They smile broadly when we call them to order, quoting to them the phrases in which one of the newspapers the night before has censured them for their friendliness to the prisoners. Little do they care what the papers say. The sentry growls at them, but they tell him to his face that the _Franzosen_ are pre-eminently “cholis” and “chantils.” Some of the better educated go so far as to admit that “a red-trousers is worth quite as much as a _Feldgrau_,” and that “it is all nonsense to say, as people do, that France is decadent.” Yesterday, some of the gang were talking to a hoary-headed postman. “Well, daddy, how goes it?” said Bracke, who can speak the Franconian patois. “Very well, gentlemen, very well!” There he stood, not knowing what to say. He had taken off his _Mütze_ and was wiping his forehead to keep himself in countenance. Then, all at once: “It grieves me,” stammering slightly, “to think that we are at war with you.…” “Nou, nou, old chap, we’re not at war with you! Our quarrel is with the big guns of your country. They’re a bad lot; they oppress you, and would like to oppress the whole world. But you’re a _poteau_! (_Du bist ein poteau_).” “_Poteau_, what’s that?” “A comrade, a chum.” The postman had tears in his eyes. “Ah,” he exclaimed, “it does me good to hear you say that. I love the French. You are so awfully nice to every one. You don’t despise the common people.” “Here, old general, here’s a cheroot which my missus has sent me. Happily France keeps us supplied, as you know. All the same, we intend to give a good hiding to your old Kaiser and all your bigwigs. We are republican. Liberty, equality, and fraternity. Live and let live is our motto. But any one who meddles with us had better look out. Damn it all! why don’t you kick your dirty old Kaiser into the sewer? Never mind! We shall set you free, and be jolly quick about it.” The postman, dumbfounded, lit his cigar at the wrong end.