or a red hatband, reveals itself, he blows out his small chest to its
fullest extent and presents arms. If the salute is acknowledged--as it
nearly always is--Petit Jean is crimson with gratification. Once, when
a friendly subaltern called his platoon to attention, and gave the
order, "Eyes right!" upon passing the motionless little figure at the
side of the road, Petit Jean was so uplifted that he committed the
military crime of deserting his post while on duty--in order to run
home and tell his mother about it.

* * * * *

Last of all we arrive at the keystone of the whole fabric--Madame
herself. She is one of the most wonderful women in the world.
Consider. Her husband and her eldest son are away--fighting, she knows
not where, amid dangers and privations which can only be imagined.
During their absence she has to manage a considerable farm, with the
help of her children and one or two hired labourers of more than
doubtful use or reliability. In addition to her ordinary duties as a
parent and _fermière_, she finds herself called upon, for months
on end, to maintain her premises as a combination of barracks and
almshouse. Yet she is seldom cross--except possibly when the
_soldats_ steal her apples and pelt the pigs with the cores--and no
accumulations of labour can sap her energy. She is up by half-past
four every morning; yet she never appears anxious to go to bed at
night. The last sound which sleepy subalterns hear is Madame's voice,
uplifted in steady discourse to the circle round the stove, sustained
by an occasional guttural chord from 'Nri and 'Seph. She has been
doing this, day in, day out, since the combatants settled down to
trench-warfare. Every few weeks brings a fresh crop of tenants, with
fresh peculiarities and unknown proclivities; and she assimilates them