Three or four poilus who were quite without their accouterments have
disappeared underground. The others sit as though paralyzed. Even
the pipes go out, and nothing is heard but the babble of talk
exchanged by the officers and their guests.

"Trench tourists," says Barque in an undertone, and then
louder--"This way, mesdames et messieurs"--in the manner of the
moment.

"Chuck it!" whispers Farfadet, fearing that Barque's malicious
tongue will draw the attention of the potent personages.

Some heads in the group are now turned our way. One gentleman who
detaches himself and comes up wears a soft hat and a loose tie. He
has a white billy-goat beard, and might be an artiste. Another
follows him, wearing a black overcoat, a black bowler hat, a black
beard, a white tie and an eyeglass.

"Ah, ah! There are some poilus," says the first gentleman. "These
are real poilus, indeed."

He comes up to our party a little timidly, as though in the
Zoological Gardens, and offers his hand to the one who is nearest to
him--not without awkwardness, as one offers a piece of bread to the
elephant.

"He, he! They are drinking coffee," he remarks.

"They call it 'the juice,'" corrects the magpie-man.