You have what pleases you.

Your ugly faces receive kisses by the post.

But you kill our pigeons, you intercept our letters, you shoot at our balloons with your absurd _fusils de rempart_, and you burst out into a heavy German grin when you get hold of one of our bags, which are carrying to those we love our vows, our hopes, our remembrance, our regrets, and our hearts.

It is a merry farce, is it not?
Ah, if ever we can render you half the sufferings which we are enduring, you will see _des grises_.

Perhaps you don't know what the word means, and, like one of Gavarni's children, you will say, 'What! _des grises ?_' You will, I trust, one of these days learn what is the signification of the term at your own cost.