Coming home in the evening I often stop on my way back to the chilly _Salle des Assiettes_, in response to an urgent invitation, to warm myself at the fireplace. Old Monsieur will be sitting on one side of the hearth and I on the other, while Baby Max toasts his toes in their scarlet slippers on a stool between us. Sometimes they will sing for me. Monsieur had a fine voice when he was young and even now he sings with a delightful air, a sort of indescribable old gallantry that is a joy to me. When he and Max sing together the effect is irresistible. “Now we will sing _Le Drapeau de la France_,” cries Monsieur. “We must stand for this!” And Monsieur in his gay red neck cloth and little Max in his blue checked pinafore stand up before the fire and sing with their hearts in the words “_Saluons le drapeau de la France._” When they come to that line, Monsieur le Commandant veteran of 1870 and baby Max salute together. Then, “_Vive la France!_” I cry, and “_Vive la France!_” they echo. When new troops pass through town Max must always run to the door to cry “_Bonjour les Américans!_” a salutation which is often followed I fear by a request for cigarettes, for Max, baby that he is, enjoys a smoke, much to his grandparents’ amusement. Among the china-ware at the Maison Chaput there is a funny little jug which the Gendarme and I use for fetching hot water. It is made in the shape of a fat frog with a blue waistcoat and a pipe in one of his webbed feet. I had thought it was the famous frog who would a-wooing go, but Monsieur has his own explanation. It is the original St. Thiebault toad he declares, to tease me. Every time I come to draw a little hot water from the stove he must crack the self-same joke. “_C’est le crapaud de Saint Thiebault_,” he cries and baby Max pipes up; “_Il a soif!_” Yesterday as I was passing through the front room on my way to the canteen Monsieur stopped me to draw me into conversation. There were several neighbors present. They gathered in a ring around me. I could see they had some weighty question to put to me. After a moment’s hesitation it came out: “_Pourquoi_,” they demanded, “_pourquoi_, does the American soldier blow his nose with his fingers?” I stared, taken aback. In order to make their meaning quite clear they illustrated with expressive gestures. “Why,” I stammered, “does the poilu never do such a thing?” “But never!” they declared in chorus. “The poilu always uses his handkerchief!” And again they illustrated in pantomime. I labored to explain; the French climate had given the boys colds, and the question of laundry and clean handkerchiefs presented difficulties.... “But,” declared old Monsieur sagely, “in America I have heard it is the custom. There all the _haut monde_, it is said, lawyers, doctors, ministers, statesmen, blow their noses in that manner!” This was too much. I hurried from the room.