“Do you think I’m a stick or a stone? I am half English, half French. You are going to fight for England and France. Don’t you think women feel these things? You are a part of the Englishwoman and the Frenchwoman that is going out to fight, and I would hate you if you didn’t fight, but I don’t want you to be killed.” She fled. And not till he left the Hôtel des Grottes did he see her again alone. When with Bigourdin and Fortinbras he was about to enter the old omnibus to take him to the station, she pinned a tricolour ribbon on his coat, and then saying “Good-bye and God bless you,” looked him squarely in the eyes. It was in his heart to say, “You’re worth all the Lucillas in the universe.” But there were Bigourdin and Fortinbras and Euphémie and Baptiste and Grégoire and the chambermaid and a few straggling girls from the _fabrique_ all standing by. He said: “God bless you, Félise. I shall never part with your ribbon as long as I live.” Grégoire climbed to his seat. Bigourdin closed the door. The omnibus jolted and swayed down the road. The elfin figure of Félise was suddenly cut off at the turn. And that was the last of the Hôtel des Grottes. A week or so later, Martin drilling in the hot barrack square realised that just a year had passed since he first set eyes on Brantôme. A year ago he had been a spineless, aimless drudge at Margett’s Universal College. Now, wearing a French uniform, he was about to fight for France and England in the greatest of all wars that the world had seen. And during those twelve months through what soul-shaking experiences had he not passed! Truly a wonderful year. “_Mais vous, num’ro sept! Sacré nom de Dieu! Qu’est-ce que vous faites-là!_” screamed the drill sergeant. Whereupon Martin abruptly realised the intense importance of the present moment. CHAPTER XXIII THE weary weeks passed by with their alternations of hopes and fears. Martin, insignificant speck of blue and red, was in the Argonne. Sergeant Bigourdin of the _Armée Territoriale_ was up in the north. The history of their days is the history of the war which has yet to be written; the story of their personal lives is identical with that of the personal lives of the millions of men who have looked and are looking Death always in the face, cut off as it were from their own souls by the curtain of war.