plainly. I said, '_They_ cannot be unjust--and surely, to take all
the five children of a poor little farmer, and to leave not one, not
even the youngest, to do the work of the farm--come, what sort of
justice is that!' And she said: 'Listen, maitresse: the good God will
bring your Martin back to you. He cannot be unjust, as you say. If my
Angelot had to go to the war--and I always fear it--I should expect him
back as surely as I expect my husband back from Lancilly at this
moment.'"

Angelot smiled at her. "Yes, yes, Martin will come back," he said. But
he shrugged his shoulders, for he could not himself see much comfort for
these poor people in his mother's argument. If you have lost four, it is
surely more logical to expect to lose a fifth. His father, a
philosopher, would not have said so much as this to the Joubards, but
would have gone on another tack altogether. He would have pointed out to
them that the glory of France depended on their sons; that this
conscription, which seemed to them so cruel, which now, in 1811, was
becoming really oppressive, was the means of making France, under her
brilliant leader, the most powerful and magnificent nation in the world.
He would have waved the tricolour before those sad eyes, would have
counted over lists of victories; and so catching was his enthusiasm that
Joubard's back would have straightened under it, and he would have gone
home--it happened more than once--feeling like a hero and the father of
heroes. But the old fellow's sudden flame of faith in his landlord and
Napoleon was not so lasting as his wife's faith in Madame and the
justice of God.

Angelot wished the maitresse good-day, left a brace of birds on the
table, and stepped out from the grimy darkness of the farm kitchen into
the dazzling sunshine of that September morning. The old white farm,
with crumbling walls about it, remnants of attempts at fortification
long ago, looked fairly prosperous in its untidiness. The fresh stacks
of corn were golden still; poultry made a great clatter, a flock of
geese on their way out charging at the two men as they left the house.
An old peasant was hammering at barrels, in preparation for the vintage;
a wild girl with a stick and a savage-looking brindled dog was starting
off to fetch the cows in from their morning graze.

All the place was bathed in crystal air and golden light, fresh and
life-giving. It stood high on the edge of the moors, the ground falling
away to