"Marguerite Clement?" a voice asked, and a uniformed boy stepped into the room. "She not here--but I am ze father." And Clement's shaking hands stretched for the envelope the boy held between his fingers. "Ne pleure pas, don't cry. A million sons of other mothers have paid the price. Be brave." He did not cry. "Be French, quoi!" But the mother cried. Clement seemed to have aged ten years in ten minutes. The other men present withdrew to the remotest corners of the room. Only old Bideaux emptied his glass, muttering a terrible oath. "He has sold his life dearly--friends. The letter says we shall soon receive his Croix de Guerre and his Legion d'Honneur medal. What a son I had! What a son we had!" "A brave son," they all said. Mamma Clement was in the other room crying softly. The men tried to console the father. Suddenly they all stopped talking. Steps were heard on the stairway. They looked one at the other. "That's Marguerite's step," said her father. The crying of the mother ceased. Was it because she realized the other woman's pain? Was it because she wanted to be brave, or because she wanted to postpone the news? The men regrouped themselves around the table. A key was turned in the latch. The door opened wide and radiantly Marguerite floated into the room. "Bonsoir, papa, Bonsoir, mes amis. Good news! Very good news!" She kissed every one present as she spread a newspaper on the table. "Yesterday the Bulgars asked for peace, to-day St. Quentin is French again." She took her father's hand and started to dance. "What's the matter, quoi? Why don't you dance? Come quick, the Marseillaise--Allons enfants de la patrie----" But no one moved. Mamma Clement came out from her room. "Oh, Marguerite!" she wanted to cry, but checked herself in presence of so much exuberance. "We can't dance, Marguerite; it's--after ten o'clock--it's New York. People want to sleep." "Ah! voila! you are old, all of you, that's the reason." A group of boys passed in the street, singing. Marguerite threw open the window, applauded and yelled at the top of her voice "Bravo!" And the gayer she grew the sadder the men looked. It made their situation ever so harder. "Sure, you drink wine all alone--give me some, too--and who gives me a glass? Oh, I want to be happy--the war will soon end. The Boche gets his due. Why do you sit like undertakers?" She had one look at all of them. It sobered her. "It is about Bernard. What is it? Come, tell me, what it is." None present dared say a word. They all stood up. Her thin voice had changed to a deep alto. Her frivolous little head suddenly became as stern as the image of vengeance. Her father, old Bideaux, was the first to recover. "Give her the letter, Clement." In a glance she took in all the contents. Bernard was dead. The rest was not important.