Thus, about this time, Madeleine began to hear of things called “Reparations,” that the Germans were going to be made to pay. She was invited to inscribe at the Mairie the list of damage done by the War to the farm. She went to see Monsieur Blanquart, and furnished him with a list that totaled 131,415 francs 41 centimes (the total market value of the farm in 1914 being about 120,000 francs). Monsieur Blanquart inscribed the lot. He did more. Like every one else, he felt that he had had an atrocious time for many years, and that nothing was too good for him. Keeping in close touch with his daughter Cécile, at Amiens, he had been quite sharp enough to see how things were shaping. He had hung in the windows of his little parlor, and all round the mayoral office at the Estaminet de la Mairie, in place of the patriotic appeals by M. Deschanel to fortitude and patience, in place of lists of conscripts, and of ever-mounting food prices, little cards inscribed “Blanquart, financial agent”; “Blanquart, bonds, shares, assurances.” He unfolded golden schemes to Madeleine, who listened with her special “stupid peasant” expression that she kept for the occasions when she was thinking hard. Her list of war damages was based not so much on facts and figures as on her one idea of any monetary transaction--namely, to ask twice as much as a thing is worth, in the certainty that you will be beaten down by at least a quarter. She was no more deceived by the talk in the papers than by Blanquart’s “financial operations.” She knew how difficult it was for her to part with money or money’s worth, and judged the Germans, and Blanquart’s stocks and shares, by her own standards. Pay! Not likely, Germans or Royal Dutch, not if they could help it. But standing hatless and vacant-faced before Blanquart, she was working out in her mind one of her slowly conceived plans, so much less simple than one would have supposed from her appearance. She had enough cash in the iron box to buy two horses and get along until harvest. “Look here, Monsieur Blanquart, I’ll take 50,000 francs’ worth of your bonds, and pay you when I get my ‘Reparations.’” But Blanquart had not lived in the village all those years for nothing. “You comprehend,” he replied, “your reparations are subject to discussion!” “No doubt; but I suppose one will pay us something!” “Undoubtedly, but how much?--That’s the point!” Madeleine got up and moved toward the door. “Oh, well, it’s a pity!” she said. Blanquart hated to see her go. She was one of the richest “heiresses” in the village (as heiresses go in France), and there was only Marie to divide it with her when old Jerome died. Moreover, she had quite a reputation for the part she had played in the last phases of the War, and it would be a great help to be able to say to the others: “Madeleine Vanderlynden has taken 50,000.” He offered: “Look here, I’ll buy your reparations for 40,000!” “No, nothing to be done,” was the answer, hand on the latch.