f
the land was low, but on this side only some narrow apple-orchards and
here and there lush water-meadows separated them from the hills.
The Croix de Guerre stood back from the road in a long garden just where
a forest bridle-path wound down through a tiny village to the main road.
Their chauffeur backed the car all but out of sight into this path after
they climbed out, and the three of them made for a sidedoor in a high
wall. Harold opened it and walked in. The pretty trim little garden had
a few flowers in bloom, so sheltered was it, and Mackay picked a red
rosebud as they walked up the path.
Harold led the way without ceremony into a parlour that opened off a
verandah, and, finding it empty, opened a door beyond. "Marie! Marie!"
he called.
"Ah, Monsieur le Capitaine, I come," came a girl's voice, and Marie
entered. Peter noticed how rapidly she took them all in, and how cold
were the eyes that nevertheless sparkled and greeted Harold and Mackay
with seeming gaiety. She was short and dark and not particularly
good-looking, but she had all the vivacity and charm of the French.
"Oh, monsieur, where have you been for so long? I thought you had
forgotten La Croix de Guerre altogether. It's the two weeks--no,
_three_--since you come here. The gentlemen will have dejeuner? And
perhaps a little aperitif before?"
"Bon jour, Marie," began the Captain in clumsy French, and then abandoned
the attempt. "I could not come, Marie, you know. C'est la guerre. Much
work each day."
"Ah, non, monsieur cannot cheat me. He had found another cafe and another
girl.... Non, non, monsieur, it is not correct;" and the girl drew
herself up with a curiously changed air as Harold clumsily reached out
towards her, protesting. "And you have a cure here--how do you say, a
chapelain?" and Marie beamed on Peter.
The two officers looked at him and laughed. "What can I bring you,
Monsieur le Capitaine le Cure?" demanded the girl. "Vermuth? Cognac?"
Mackay slipped from the edge of the table on which