Its former history makes no difference to me, for we still have kings of our own, but dating from the 14th of July, whatever France is, I consider mine and the property of all mankind." He stopped a few seconds, searching for a more concrete affirmation.
"I am fighting, Captain, because of Danton and Hoche." Ferragut in his imagination saw the white, disheveled hair of Michelet and the romantic foretop of Lamartine upon a double pedestal of volumes which used to contain the story-poem of the Revolution.
"And I am also fighting for France," concluded the lad triumphantly, "because it is the country of Victor Hugo." Ulysses suspected that this twenty-year-old Republican was probably hiding in his knapsack a blank book full of original verses written in lead pencil.
The South American, accustomed to the disputes of his two companions, looked at his black fingernails with the melancholy desperation of a prophet contemplating his country in ruins.

Blanes, the son of a middle-class citizen, used to admire him for his more distinguished family.

The day of the mobilization he had gone to Paris in an automobile of fifty horse-power to enroll as a volunteer; he and his chauffeur had enlisted together.

Then he had donated his luxurious vehicle to the cause.
He had wished to be a soldier because all the young fellows in his club were leaving for the war.

Furthermore, he felt greatly flattered that his latest sweetheart, seeing him in uniform, should devote a few tears of admiration and astonishment to him.