“What troops were they?” She turned over a dirty dog-eared memorandum book. “469 Trench Mortar Battery.” “So they had had a bad time?” “One gathered that. They were very few, and some of their material was missing. At the last came this man with his two mules. One was sick, one was wounded. Most of the men, as soon as they had put up their animals, fell down and slept, but this one kept walking about. It was almost dark and it was beginning to rain. I asked him what he wanted.” “What did he say?” “‘To Hell with the Pope!’” The shibboleth sounded so queer on her lips that Dormer glanced at her face. It was blank. She had merely memorized the words in case they might be of use to her. She went on: “He did not like the images on the altar! Then he began to break the glass, and pull down the woodwork. One saw what he wanted. It was shelter for his mules.” “You cautioned him that he was doing wrong?” “I believe you. I even held him by the arm.” “That was wrong of you, Mademoiselle. You should have informed his officer.” “Oh, you must understand that his officer was asleep on the kitchen floor. But so asleep. He lay where he had fallen, he had not let go the mug from which he drank his whisky. So much--(she held up four graphic fingers)--ah, but whisky you know!” “I see. You were unable to report to the officer in charge of the party. But still, you should never touch a soldier. He might do you an injury, and then, at a court of inquiry, it would be said against you that you laid hands on him.” “Oh, you understand, one is not afraid, one has seen so many soldiers these years. And as for the court of inquiry, we have had four here, about various matters. They all ended in nothing.” “Well, well, you endeavoured to prevent the damage, and being unable to report to the proper authority, you made your claim for damage in due course. But when the officer woke up, you informed him that you had done so?” “Why necessarily, since we had the Maire to make a _procès-verbal_!” “So I hear, from the Maire himself. But apparently the Maire did not do so, for the procès-verbal is not included with the other papers.” “No, the Maire was prevented by the troops. (A grim smile broke for a moment the calculated business indifference on the face of one who excluded emotion, because it was a bad way of obtaining money.) Oh, la-la! There was a _contretemps_!” “Do you mind telling me what occurred?” She seemed to regret that brief smile, and apologized to herself. “All the same, it was shameful. Our Maire is no better than any other, but he is our Maire. One ought to respect those in power, ought not one, sir?” “In what way were the troops lacking in respect?” “They sang. They sang--_casse-tête_--enough to split your head, all the way to the village!” “Oh, they were on the move, were they?”