As a side issue, the social position of the peasant farmer began to improve. He had been accustomed to brief spells of flattery at election times--not to the wave of adulation that now engulfed him. He began to look the whole world in the face, and fear not any man. But many a man began, if not to fear him, at least to seek his good offices. Besides all the politicians, the contractors, the endless train of semi-public opportunists the War had created, the easy-going world of retired middle-aged people that are to be found in every French Department, suddenly discovered that the only way to remain easy-going was to get the farmer to befriend them. Everything from coals to chicken meal, from bread to cotton was being rationed. That facile plenty which is the basis of the French provincial middle class was threatened. Thus, as 1916 advanced, and the long sordid epic of Verdun began to string out its desperate incidents, the Baron Louis d’Archeville, walking round his shooting with the air of a child gazing at a birthday cake it has been forbidden to touch, bowler hat, “sports,” camp-stool, all complete, stumped over the pavement of the yard, and found Madeleine putting her week’s washing through the portable wringer. Having it in his mind to ask for wooden logs, eggs, ham, and anthracite, he naturally began: “Ah, good day, Madeleine, pretty as ever!” “Good day, Monsieur le Baron.” “And this brave Jerome, he goes well? A glass of beer? I shall not say no!” He sat down on a wheelbarrow and waited for her to call her father. Old Jerome came at Madeleine’s cry of “Papa, kom ben t’haus!” from picking over his seed potatoes. Madeleine, who wanted the men out of the way, let it pass for politeness that she took the carafe of beer and two hastily washed glasses into the kitchen, swabbed the table and invited the Baron to place himself. She went back to her wringer, leaving the door into the scullery open. One never knew. She had kept her secret in her heart ever since her visit to the English hospital. She had no news, and had been able to think of no new way of getting even with the War, but she had forgotten nothing, forgiven nothing, renounced nothing. Old Jerome, who, even a year before, would have stood in the Baron’s presence until told to be seated, now sat down beside his landlord without apology. The Baron did not remark on this, but said: “Then, you have your farm all full of English?” “They do damage enormously.” “Very likely, but you have the right to be paid!” “They pay, but they do damage all the same.” Old Jerome was not going to let go a possible advantage.