I was shocked then at the callousness of the lady. It seemed to me incredible. Now I am no longer shocked, but understand the horror that was hers, the loathing for a daughter of France who had--if the mob were not mistaken--violated the code of honour which enabled the French people to resist German brutality, even German kindness, which they hated worse, with a most proud disdain. That girl outside, bleeding and senseless in the car, had been friendly with German officers, notorious in her company with them. Otherwise she would not have been seized by the crowd and branded for shame. There was a fierce protective instinct which hardened Madame Chéri against charity. Only those who have seen what war means to women close to it, in enemy hands, may truly understand, and, understanding, curse war again for all its destruction of souls and bodies. XIII Brand and Dr. Small were both astonished and indignant. “Do you mean to say she shuts her door against this poor bleeding girl?” said Brand. The American doctor did not waste words. He only used words when there was no action on hand. “The next place?” he said. “A hospital?” I had the idea of the convent where Eileen O’Connor lodged. There was a sanctuary. Those nuns were vowed to Christian charity. They would understand and have pity. “Yes,” said Brand, and he called to the driver. We drove hard to the convent, and Brand was out of the car before it stopped, and rang the bell with such a tug that we heard it jangling loudly in the courtyard. It seemed long before the little wicket opened and a woman’s voice said, “_Qui est la?_” Brand gave his name and said, “Open quickly, _ma sour_. We have a woman here who is ill.” The gate was opened, and Brand and I lifted out the girl, who was still unconscious, but moaning slightly, and carried her into the courtyard, and thence inside the convent to the whitewashed passage where I had listened so long to the Reverend Mother telling me of the trial scene. It was the Reverend Mother who came now, with two of her nuns, while the little portress stood by, clasping her hands. “An accident?” said the Reverend Mother. “How was the poor child hurt?” She bent over the girl, Marthe--Pierre Nesle’s sister, as I remembered with an added pity--pulled my Burberry from her face and shoulders and glanced at the bedraggled figure there. “Her hair has been cut off,” said the old nun. “That is strange! There are the marks of finger-nails on her shoulder. What violence was it, then?” Brand described the rescue of the girl from the mob, who would have torn her to pieces, and as he spoke I saw a terrible look come into the Reverend Mother’s face. “I remember--1870,” she said harshly. “They cut the hair of women who had disgraced themselves--and France--by their behaviour with German soldiers. We thought then that it was a light punishment... we think so now, monsieur!”