They were visibly cowed.
But the situation is not so simple and clearly defined as it was in
the first place. In the old days either we were English and they
weren't, or they were French and we weren't. There was no _tertium
quid_. Now things are more complicated. As Thomas and I stood on the
platform, loving each other silently and unostentatiously, a cheery
musical train of _poilus_ laboured into the station. There was nothing
silent or curt about them: they were all for bread and chianti and
flowers and ovations or any other old thing the crowd cared to offer.
Anything for a jest and to pass the time of day. Between the French
troops and the Italian crowd the matter was clear enough. Next-door
neighbours, molested by the same gang of roughs in the same brutal
manner, quite understand each other and the general situation when
they climb over each other's garden fences to put the matter to
rights. It was the presence of Thomas and myself which put such an
odd complexion on the whole affair.
Between ourselves and the crowd it was "Long live Italy!" and "Long
live England!" Between the _poilus_ and the crowd it was "Long live
Italy!" and "Long live France!" But between the _poilus_ and ourselves
there were no signs of any desire that England or France might endure
another day. And yet the crowd couldn't suppose that we didn't like
each other, for the knowing looks which passed between the hilarious
_poilu_ and slowly smiling Thomas clearly indicated some strange and
intimate relation.
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