over the tomb, recording all his virtues, and with a bas-relief of
herself (a very inaccurate representation, I am told, as it gave her
a Madonna-like appearance to which she can lay no claim in real life)
shedding tears upon his sarcophagus."

Madame Marcot paused for breath, and, thinking the story finished, we
drifted in with appropriate comments. But we were soon cut short.

"Ten months afterwards," continued the lady dramatically, "as Madame
de Blanchet, dressed of course in the deepest mourning, was making
strawberry jam in the kitchen and weeping over her sorrows, who should
walk in but Monsieur?"

"What--her husband?" cried everybody.

"The same," answered Madame Marcot. "He was a spectacle. He had lost
an arm; his clothing was in tatters, and he was as thin as a skeleton.
But it was Monsieur de Blanchet all the same."

"What had happened?" we shrieked in chorus.

"What has happened more than once in the course of this War. He had
been taken prisoner, had been unable to communicate and at last, after
many marvellous adventures, had succeeded in escaping."

"But the other?" we cried.

"Ah, now we come to the really desolating part of the affair," said
Madame Marcot. "The corpse in M. de Blanchets clothing, what was he
but a villainous Boche--stout, as is the way of these messieurs--who