But Antoinette, coming from a village some eighty miles away, was
a stranger and an alien. I was her only friend. It ended in my
inviting her to come to England, the land of the free and the
refuge of the downtrodden and oppressed, and become my
housekeeper. She accepted, with smiles and tears. And they were
great big smiles, that went into creases all over her fat red
face, forming runnels for the great big tears which dropped off
at unexpected angles. She was alone in the world. Her only son
had died during his military service in Madagascar. Although her
man was dead, the law would not regard her as a widow because she
had never been married, and therefore refused to exempt her only
son. "_On ne peut-etre Jeune qu'une fois, n'est-ce pas,
Monsieur?_" she said, in extenuation of her early fault.

"And Jean-Marie," she added, "was as brave a fellow and as
devoted a son as if I had been married by the Saint-Pere
himself."

I waved my hand in deprecation and told her it did not matter in
the least. The della Scalas, supreme lords of Verona for many
generations, were every man jack of them so parented. Even
William the Conqueror--

"_Tiens_ cried Antoinette, consoled, "and he became Emperor of
Germany--he and Bismarck!"

Antoinette's historical sense is rudimentary. I have not tried
since to develop it.