In an instant she was at Ruffec, stepping the cool, quiet streets. There was old Monsieur Laffargue, the doctor, getting down from his gig. Now he was smiling broadly and rallying her about her cheeks. ‘You must do something,’ he said. She could hear his jolly old voice. ‘Something. I don’t know what. No one will ever believe there’s no paint there.’ She passed on smiling. . . . A voice called from a window. Madame Durand, of course, the postman’s wife. ‘Madeleine, Madeleine, my sister has had a son. A great fat rogue, they say, four kilos at birth. Is it not wonderful?’ Madeleine rejoiced with her, and went her way. Then Père Fréchou stopped her, to give her five great peaches—two for each of her eyes and one for her pretty red lips . . . She came to the Rue de l’Image, all decked with the evening sun. The awnings of the little shops made it absurdly narrow, like a toy street. And there, striding into the sunlight, came René Dudoy. His healthy young face lighted up. ‘I was on my way, Madeleine, to tell you how lucky I am. The _patron_ has been given the order for three mantelpieces in stone at the Château St. Pol, and I am to do the work and to put them in.’ ‘Oh, René, I am so glad—so awfully glad. Go on and tell Jean and Jacques. Or stay—go home and get Marie and bring her to supper with us. See what Père Fréchou has given me. Did ever you see such beauties? We’ll eat them to-night in your honour. There’s plenty of cream.’ René’s face was a picture. Madeleine passed on thoughtfully. . . . At the draper’s she laid out her money—some thirty-two francs—not without much hesitation and plucking at stuffs. Madame Bidart was kindness itself, and made her a price. Indeed, the old lady refused to sell her the linen she chose. It was not good enough, she declared. Now this was superb—fit for a king’s daughter. ‘But I am not a king’s daughter,’ protested Madeleine, laughing. ‘You are an angel from heaven,’ said Madame Bidart. ‘I tell you——’ “How long will you be?” said Lacaze yawning luxuriously. “I mean, it is getting late, and I must be up at five.” “A quarter of an hour,” said his wife, and bent to her work. The night was stifling. * * * * * Madeleine’s younger brother was killed that fateful August. Ere September was old, Jean had been taken prisoner. Of René, no news reached her. For the matter of that, she heard naught of Lacaze, either. He had not told her his regiment. He never wrote. The man might have been dead . . . might have. . . . He came to see her at last, one dark December morning. . . . When he went back, he took a shirt with him. Twice more he came to see her, and each time took back a shirt. He swore by these garments—called them his mascots, his charms—declared he could never be killed while she sat on his shoulders. . . . The idea stuck. Madeleine began to believe her linen was preserving his life. She tried to be grateful.