They wore the uniforms of the French army,
and were mostly young men in the prime of life, to whom also the
spring should have brought a sense of vital joy, of intense and
energetic life. But they dragged between their crutches while their
lopped limbs hung free. A little further off in a patch of sunshine
beyond the wall of the Jeu de Paumes, sat half a dozen soldiers of
France with loose sleeves pinned to their coats, or with only one leg
to rest upon the ground. One of them was blind and sat there with his
face to the sun, staring towards the fountain of the nymphs with
sightless eyes. Those six comrades of war were quite silent, and did
not "fight their battles o'er again." Perhaps they were sad because
they heard the spring-song, and knew that they could never step out
again to the dance-tune of youth.
And yet, strangely, there was more gladness than sadness in Paris
now that spring had come, in spite of the women in black, and the
cripples in the gardens. Once again it brought the promise of life.
"Now that the spring is here," said the old cab-driver in the white hat,
"France will soon be free and the war will soon be over."
This hopefulness that the fine weather would end the war quickly was
a splendid superstition which buoyed up many hearts in France.
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