“Madame, be happy. Absolutely your husband is safe. Take it from me. He
has not even a scratch. Always the wife hears at once. That he has not
been to see you is easily explained. Ten to one he is in the
East—Salonica, making fat Bulgars perspire. He wrote and told you, of
course, but the letter was sunk. These Germans! Madame, believe and be
happy. Your husband is safe. I tell you he will come back.”
Madeleine stole out of the building as she would have stolen out of a
dock. She had committed a crime, and had been given judgment.
She would have given anything to go to Ruffec . . . anything—except the
one thing she had. This was her self-respect. If she went to Ruffec, if
once she saw those strong brown fingers groping their pitiful way, the
flesh might spoil the spirit of its only hoard. And that meant poverty
she could not face. She was a good girl.
* * * * *
Eighteen months had gone by, when Lady Joan Satinwood told her French
maid that it was her determined intention to winter in France.
“We shall go down by car, Madeleine—the Major and I, and you and the
chauffeur. It’ll be great fun, and I expect you’ll be thrilled to see
your country again.”
“Yes, madame.”
“I suppose you’ve—you’ve no news?”
“Of my husband? No, madame.”
“I’m sorry. But don’t despair. Remember my cousin, Sir George. And he
was reported ‘killed.’ Two and a half years afterwards, Madeleine, he
came walking in. . . .”
“Yes, madame.”
When Madeleine learned in mid-Channel, some three weeks later, that they
were to go by Poitiers she felt very faint. . . .
Poitiers lies north of Ruffec, just forty-one miles.
“_Et de Poitiers?_ . . . . After we ’ave lef’ Poitiers? . . .”
“Angoulême,” said the chauffeur, thumbing his itinerary. “That’s right.
Vivonne, Chaunay, Ruffec, Angoulême. Sleep Angoulême. Nex’
day—Barbézieux, Bordeaux. Sleep Bor—— ’Elp!”
He dropped his paper and caught his companion as she swayed. Then he
carried her into the saloon and sought for a stewardess. . . .
Later that day he recounted his experience to a friend.
“I arst ’er if she was a good sailor, too,” he concluded aggrievedly.
Four days later, as they were entering Poitiers, a brake-rod snapped. No
resultant damage was done, but the car was stopped at a garage that
Terry—the chauffeur—might see if an adjustment could be made. By good
fortune, it could.
The car was backed over a pit, and Terry got out of his coat and into
his overalls. He was a good chauffeur. Where his car was concerned, he
fancied his own fingers more than a hireling’s.
The Major got out and went strolling. Lady Joan stayed in the car.
Madeleine stood in the garage, translating for Terry.
Half an hour’s work, and the connection was made.
Terry heaved himself out of the pit and called for waste.
The mechanics stared.
“Cotton waste,” said the chauffeur. “Comprenny? Pour wiper the hands.”
Madeleine smiled and asked for a rag.
A mechanic went shuffling. A moment later he returned with a rectangular
cardboard box.
“_Voilà_,” he said.
“Wot’s this?” said Terry, staring. “Dog biscuits?”
The mechanic pointed to the label.