,
paved court, sunlit, well warmed.

Madame sat in a wicker chair, her back to the closed green jalousies
of the dining-room window. Beside her was her workbox. On her knees
was a spread of white linen. Madame held it a sacred duty _visiter la
linge_ once a week; and no tear remained undarned or hole unpatched
for very long. As she sewed she sang, in a thin, high voice, the
gayest little songs, full of unexpected trills and little passages of
dancing melody.

Madame was mistress. There was no mistake about that. Monsieur was a
retired business man who had fought under General Faidherbe in the
Franco-Prussian war. He was older than Madame, a very patient, quiet
gentleman. He was a little deaf, which was an advantage to him, for
Madame scolded him sometimes. He read newspapers diligently, tended
the pear trees in the garden, and did messages for Madame.

There was also Marie, a distant cousin of Monsieur's, herself the
owner of a small farm in Brittany, who was--I know no term which
expresses her place in the household. She was neither servant nor
guest, and in no way the least like what I imagine a "lady-help" to
be. She was older than Madame, older, I fancy, even than Monsieur,
and she went to Mass every morning. Madame was more moderate in her
religion. Monsieur, I think, was, or once had been, a little
anti-clerical.

Madame was the most tender-hearted woman I have ever met. She loved
all living things, even an atrocious little dog called Fifi, half
blind, wholly deaf, and given to wheezing horribly. Only once did I
see her really angry. A neighbour went away from home for two days,
leaving a dog tied up without food or water in his yard. We climbed
the wall and, with immense difficulty, brought the creature to
Madame. She trembled with passion while she fed it. She would have
done bodily harm to the owner if she could.

She did not even hate Germans. Sometimes at our midday meal Monsieur
would read from the paper an account of heavy German casualties or an
estimate of the sum total of German losses. He chuckled. So many more
dead Boches. So much the better for the world. But Madame always
sighed. "_Les pauvres garcons_," she said. "_C'est terrible,
terrible._" Then perhaps Monsieur, good patriot, asserted himself and
declared that the Boche was better dead. And Madame scolded him for
his inhumanity. Our own wounded--_les pauvres blesses_--we mentioned
as little as possible. Madame wept at the thought of them,