“It is true,” said Madeleine. “I have an aunt who lives in the country—in a very little village. Before the war were thirty families and fifty men. I was there two years ago. The men were all at the front—all.... But the fields were planted and the harvests reaped. It was the women. They labored for the men.... I was there again—it was a month ago.... The fields were not planted. Matters were bad. It was not beautiful, and all was neglected.... The women no longer worked. And why? Ah, it was because there was no longer a reason for them to work.... There were no men to come home to those fields.... Of the fifty who went to the war, fifty were dead.... Forever it will be a village without men!...” There was a silence. Every one was feeling the weight of the calamities of war.... Then Madeleine laughed, but it was a laugh without her customary gay, careless ring. “This is the last generation of the French,” she said, half mockingly. “Our men are gone.... You shall see. The next generation will be what? Look you. It will be English, Belgian, Italian, American, Moroccan, Chinese....” “For example!” exclaimed Andree. “It is so,” affirmed Madeleine. “Already the government offers one five hundred francs for a son.... I think the government is satisfied if it is half French, is it not?” “A son is a son,” said Andree. “To become a soldier when he is a man—and fight the _boches_!” “There will be no more wars,” said Bert. “When we are through with this one nobody will ever have to fight the _boches_ again.” “If one could believe,” Andree said, in a low voice.