“They were guilty,” said Pierre Nesle. “It is against the old men in all countries of Europe that youth will declare war. For it was their ideas which brought us to our ruin.” He spoke so loudly that people in the restaurant turned to look at him. He paid his bill and spoke in a lower voice. “It is dangerous to talk like this in public. Let us walk up the Champs Elysées, where I am visiting some friends.” Suddenly a remembrance came back to him. “Your friends, too,” he said. “My friends?” “But yes; Madame Chéri and Hélène. After Edouard’s death they could not bear to live in Lille.” “Edouard, that poor boy who came back? He is dead?” “He was broken by the prison life,” said Pierre. “He died within a month of armistice, and Hélène wept her heart out. He confided a secret to me. Hélène and he had come to love each other, and would marry when they could get her mother’s consent--or, one day, if not.” “What’s her objection?” I asked. “Why, it’s splendid to think that Hélène and you will be man and wife. The thought of it makes me feel good.” He pressed my arm and said, “_Merci, mille fois, mon cher_.” Madame Chéri objected to his political opinions. She regarded them as poisonous treachery. “And Hélène?” I remembered that outburst, months back, when Hélène had desired the death of many German babies. “Hélène loves me,” said Pierre simply. “We do not talk politics.” On our way to the Avenue Victor Hugo I ventured to ask him a question which had been a long time in my mind “Your sister, Marthe? She is well?” Even in the pearly twilight of the Champs Elysées I was aware of Pierre’s sudden change of colour. I had touched a nerve that still jumped. “She is well and happy,” he answered gravely. “She is now a _religieuse_, a nun, in the convent at Lille. They tell me she is a saint. Her name in religion is _Sour Angélique._” I called on Madame Chéri and her daughter with Pierre Nesle. They seemed delighted to see me, and Hélène greeted me like an old and trusted friend, giving me the privilege of kissing her cheek. She had grown taller and beautiful, and there was a softness in her eyes when she looked at Pierre which made me sure of his splendid luck. Madame Chéri had aged, and some of her fire had burnt out. I guessed that it was due to Edouard’s death. She spoke of that, and wept a little, and deplored the mildness of the Peace Treaty which had not punished the evil race who had killed her husband and her boy and the flower of France. “There are many German dead,” said Pierre. “They have been punished.” “Not enough!” cried Madame Chéri. “They should all be dead.” Hélène kissed her hand and snuggled down to her as once I had seen in Lille. “_Petite maman_,” she said, “let us talk of happy things to-night. Pierre has brought us a good friend.” Later in the evening, when Pierre and Hélène had gone into another room to find some biscuits for our wine, Madame Chéri spoke to me about their betrothal.