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Marie shrieked in alarm. “You will not leave us?” she cried.

For the first time the young man permitted himself to smile. “Others arrive soon,” he said.

He touched his shako, wheeled his horse in the direction from which he had come, and a minute later Marie heard the hoofs echoing through the empty village.

When they came, the others were more sympathetic. Even in times of war a beautiful woman is still a beautiful woman. And the staff officers who moved into the quarters so lately occupied by the enemy found in the presence of the Countess d’Aurillac nothing to distress them. In the absence of her dear friend, Madame Iverney, the chatelaine of the chateau, she acted as their hostess. Her chauffeur showed the company cooks the way to the kitchen, the larder, and the charcoal-box. She, herself, in the hands of General Andre placed the keys of the famous wine-cellar, and to the surgeon, that the wounded might be freshly bandaged, intrusted those of the linen-closet. After the indignities she had suffered while “detained” by les Boches, her delight and relief at again finding herself under the protection of her own people would have touched a heart of stone. And the hearts of the staff were not of stone. It was with regret they gave the countess permission to continue on her way. At this she exclaimed with gratitude. She assured them, were her aunt able to travel, she would immediately depart.

“In Paris she will be more comfortable than here,” said the kind surgeon. He was a reservist, and in times of peace a fashionable physician and as much at his ease in a boudoir as in a field hospital. “Perhaps if I saw Madam Benet?”

At the suggestion the countess was overjoyed. But they found Madame Benet in a state of complete collapse. The conduct of the Germans had brought about a nervous breakdown.

“Though the bridges are destroyed at Meaux,” urged the surgeon, “even with a detour, you can be in Paris in four hours. I think it is worth the effort.”

But the mere thought of the journey threw Madame Benet into hysterics. She asked only to rest, she begged for an opiate to make her sleep. She begged also that they would leave the door open, so that when she dreamed she was still in the hands of the Germans, and woke in terror, the sound of the dear French voices and the sight of the beloved French uniforms might reassure her. She played her part well. Concerning her Marie felt not the least anxiety. But toward Briand, the chauffeur, the new arrivals were less easily satisfied.

The general sent his adjutant for the countess. When the adjutant had closed the door General Andre began abruptly:

“The chauffeur Briand,” he asked, “you know him; you can vouch for him?”

“But, certainly!” protested Marie. “He is an Italian.”

As though with sudden enlightenment, Marie laughed. It was as if now in the suspicion of the officer she saw a certain reasonableness. “Briand was so long in the Foreign Legion in Algiers,” she explained, “where my husband found him, that we have come to think of him as French. As much French as ourselves, I assure you.”

The general and his adjutant were regarding each other questioningly.

“Perhaps I should tell the countess,” began the general, “that we have learned–“

The signal from the adjutant was so slight, so swift, that Marie barely intercepted it.

The lips of the general shut together like the leaves of a book. To show the interview was at an end, he reached for a pen.

“I thank you,” he said.

“Of course,” prompted the adjutant, “Madame d’Aurillac understands the man must not know we inquired concerning him.”

General Andre frowned at Marie.

“Certainly not!” he commanded. “The honest fellow must not know that even for a moment he was doubted.”