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Updated: June 13, 2025
The master walked about it seriously; then he smiled. "It is already not so bad," said he, in that funny English of which he was so proud. "No, already not so bad." "He! Quoi?" cried he, relapsing into French. "Qu'est-ce que vous me chantez la? O, in America," he added, on further information being hastily furnished. "That is anozer sing. O, very good, very good."
At last, when he had changed his place for about the sixth time, finding still the same untoward result to the experiment he thrust his head forward, settled his eyes on mine, and demanded with impatience, "Qu'est-ce que c'est? Vous me jouez des tours?"
The last phase of the war of movement was the race for the Channel Ports and it devolved upon aircraft to observe the enemy's movements from his centre and left flank to meet the Allied movement to the coast, to observe the movements of the four newly-formed corps which came into action at Ypres and to maintain liaison with the Belgian and British forces at Antwerp and Ostend. Information was very difficult to obtain and on one occasion I flew from the Aisne to Antwerp, under Sir John French's instructions, in order as far as possible to clear up the general situation when our G.H.Q. was in doubt as to whether Antwerp was completely surrounded or not. It was an interesting piece of work. There was a light drizzle, and the forest of Compiègne had to be flown over at about 200 feet. The B.E. could not make the distance without refilling, and although only a short halt was made at Amiens for the purpose, it was too late to fly direct to Antwerp. Instead, a landing was made in a very sticky field under light plough, which was selected from the air about 4 miles north of Bruges, to which town I rode on a borrowed bicycle. At Bruges there was great consternation and uncertainty as to the position at Antwerp, but the Commander kindly placed a large open car and its very energetic driver at my disposal to try and get through. After many difficulties we managed to find our way into Antwerp by about midnight, and I was received by the Belgian Commander. He explained that though the Germans had broken through the South-Eastern sector and his troops were very hard pressed (and pointing repeatedly to a piece of an 18-inch German shell in the corner of the room, he said, "Mais qu'est-ce qu'on peut faire avec ces choses-l
Are you not sorry that your money should be going so quickly?" "No. The quicker it goes the better." "Mais sais-tu-mais dis donc, are you really rich? Mais sais-tu, you have too much contempt for money. Qu'est-ce que tu feras apres, dis donc?" "Apres I shall go to Homburg, and win another hundred thousand francs." "Oui, oui, c'est ca, c'est magnifique!
One of our Roumanian slave-drivers was in the habit of paying us a daily visit and talking in the bombastic fashion the Roumanians adopted when boasting of their impending victories. The word "Mackensen" occurred in Randa's answer. The Roumanian was surprised to hear the name, unknown to him, and said: "Qu'est-ce que c'est que ce Mackensen?
We travellers Blandine and I, that is soon fell into a frivolous mood which was much intensified by Ollivier's query, repeated after each burst of laughter, 'Qu'est-ce qu'il dit? He had to submit good-humouredly to our continuous joking in German, though we always responded in French to his frequent demands for tonique or jambon cru, which seemed to form the staple of his diet.
Outside the boudoir door stood Aline, her brows drawn together under her ragged fringe of hair, her thin lips set in a line that betokened anxiety. "Monsieur, monsieur," she exclaimed accusingly, "dites moi, qu'est-ce que vous avez fait?" "Je n'ai rien fait, Aline," he replied coldly; "je ne sais rien." She gazed at him in a puzzled fashion.
The Subaltern caught a man by the arm and pushed him into a doorway. "Qu'est-ce que c'est, le nom de cette village?" he said, with as much insistence and coolness as he could muster. The poor fellow broke into a tirade in which his desire to cut German throats, his peculiarly unfortunate circumstances, and his wish to get away literally tripped over each other.
Every man seized the empty plate in front of him and shoved it into his neighbour's hand; the plates moved toward the bowls, were filled amid uncouth protestations and accusations "Mettez plus que ca" "C'est pas juste, alors" "Donnez-moi encore de pommes" "Nom de Dieu, il n'y a pas assez" "Cochon, qu'est-ce qu'il veut?" "Shut up" "Gott-ver-dummer" and returned one by one.
"Let me tell him what he looks in the eyes of a pure-minded American." "Leave that to me," said I, thrusting Pinkerton clear through the door. "Qu'est-ce qu'il a?" inquired the student. "Monsieur se sent mal au coeur d'avoir trop regardé votre croûte," said I, and made my escape, scarce with dignity, at Pinkerton's heels. "What did you say to him?" he asked.
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