“As you please,” said Lacaze. “But burn the paper at once and keep your mouth shut. Tell no one. You know, I fear, that Madeleine is very stuck up.” He sighed. “It is no good mincing matters. Her pride has caused me much grief. You and I are not good enough. She would, I think, like to be free. If she were free. . . .” He broke off and shrugged his shoulders. “There is a young officer somewhere. They correspond. . . .” “The jade!” raged José. “The jade! The graceless minx! Trust me.” Her voice vibrated. “She shall never be free. Never!” Here she became maudlin. “But, Pierre dear, I shall not receive the news. It is not to be thought of . . .” “Perhaps not,” said Pierre shortly, taking his leave. “But remember my words. I trust you to see justice done.” “Never fear,” cried José, her pig eyes gleaming. . . . Finally, the steeple-jack spoke with his wife. He chose their last night together. It was a stifling evening: such air as found its way into their apartment seemed to be stale: odours of neighbouring kitchens rose up stagnant. Out of the roar of the traffic continual cries of newsvendors stood as syrens out of a gale. Madeleine sat by a window, sewing hard. Lacaze lounged upon a settee, smoking calmly and oiling a pair of boots. My lady finished her stitching and cut the thread. Then she held up her work and turned it about. After a moment she rose and crossed to her husband. “Is that what you want, Pierre? It does not look very well, but I think it will wear. If it is right, I will do the other shoulder.” Lacaze examined the shirt. This was a cotton affair of green and grey stripes. Over one shoulder strips of fine linen had been laid, by way of a pad. These had been quilted beautifully. “But this is charming,” he said, putting his head on one side. “Ah, me, what it is to be loved! If René could only see this he would jump into the Seine. You know I shall be chaffed—devilishly. No one will ever believe that this was the work of a wife. Never mind. I am content. Now I shall be cool these hot days, yet my shoulders will not be sore.” He peered at the linen. “Where did you find this stuff?” “I cut up a chemise.” “Sweeter and sweeter,” he crowed. “The soldier goes off to the war with his girl on his shoulder. My dear, you are getting quite gay. How did you think of such a charming conceit?” “I did not,” said Madeleine coldly. “I had nothing else.”