“Observe,” she concluded triumphantly, “I have the Church and State on my side.”

“Have you?” I queried.  “Have you?  Look again.”

She turned to the right for the Mayor, but a strong trail of straw running up the by-way told that that massive but inarticulate dignitary had slunk home to his threshing.  She turned to the left for the Cure, but the whisk of a skirt and a flannel shank disappearing into the church-porch showed that the discreet clerk had side-stepped for sanctuary.  I thought it kinder to leave Madame the widow Palliard-Dubose to herself at this juncture, but something told me I had not heard the last of her.  Nor had I. A week later an imposing document was forwarded from the orderly-room for my “information and necessary action, please.”  It emanated from the French Military Mission and claimed from me the modest sum of two thousand three hundred and fourteen francs on behalf of one Madame Veuve Palliard-Dubose, of the village of Sailly-le-Petit, Pas de Calais, the claimant alleging that my troopers had stolen unthreshed wheat to that value wherewith to feed their horses.  A prompt settlement would oblige.

I fled panic-stricken down to stables and wagged the document in the faces of the thieves.  They were virtuously indignant; hadn’t pinched no wheat-straw at all—­not in Sailly-le-Petit.  Might have been a bit absent-minded-like at Auchy-en-Artois, and again at Pressy-aux-Bois mistakes may have been made, but here never—­no, Sir, s’welp-them-Gawd.  I wrote to the French Mission denying the impeachment.  They replied with a fresh shower of claims.  I answered with a storm of denials.  The sky snowed correspondence.  Just when the French were putting it all over me and my orderly-room was hinting that I had best pay up and save the Entente Cordiale, the French ran out of paper and sent one of their missionaries in a car to settle the matter verbally.  I gave him a good lunch, an excellent cigar and spread all the facts of the case before him as one human to another.  He spent an hour nosing about the village, and the result of his investigations was that Madame Veuve Palliard-Dubose, so far from having her wheat stolen, had had no wheat to steal, and furthermore never in the course of her agricultural activities had she harvested crops to the value of Francs 2314.  Virtue triumphant.  Evil vanquished.  Madame the widow Palliard-Dubose retired grimly into her cabin, slamming the door on the world.

Yesterday was New Year’s Day.  Imagine my surprise when, on visiting the horses at mid-day, Madame Veuve Palliard-Dubose leaned over the half-door of her dwelling and waved her hand to me. “Ah, ha, Monsieur le Lieutenant”, she crowed, “many felicitations on this most auspicious day! Bon jour, belle annee!”

I was so staggered I treated her to my perfecto superfino, my very best salute (usually reserved for Generals and Field Cashiers).  “The same to you, Madame, and many of ’em. Vive la France!”