Of course everything
depended on the people. If the people only knew it! But they didn't.
They stood about in puzzled flocks, like sheep, wondering which way the
newspaper dog was going to hound them. They took her to the great music
halls. Every allusion to war was greeted with rapturous applause. The
Marseillaise was demanded and encored till the orchestra rebelled from
sheer exhaustion. Joan's patience was sorely tested. She had to listen
with impassive face to coarse jests and brutal gibes directed against
England and everything English; to sit unmoved while the vast audience
rocked with laughter at senseless caricatures of supposed English
soldiers whose knees always gave way at the sight of a French uniform.
Even in the eyes of her courteous hosts, Joan's quick glance would
occasionally detect a curious glint. The fools! Had they never heard of
Waterloo and Trafalgar? Even if their memories might be excused for
forgetting Crecy and Poictiers and the campaigns of Marlborough. One
evening--it had been a particularly trying one for Joan--there stepped
upon the stage a wooden-looking man in a kilt with bagpipes under his
arm.
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