Now if this were fiction and not just a straight setting down of facts the papers might here be produced by a breathless courier or dropped from an aeroplane.  But they weren’t.

At this crisis when all seemed lost, Marie rallied.  She said:  “Look in the lining of your coat.”

I was unaware of any hole in the lining but, duly obedient, I reached inside and found an opening.  Some papers rustled in my hand.  I clutched them like a madman, violently drew them forth and, perceiving that they were the precious documents, waved them about like a dancing dervish.  The soldiers were distinctly disappointed and cast an evil eye on Marie, as though holding her personally responsible for cheating them out of a little target-practice.

The commissionaires examined the papers, smiled as graciously as before they had frowned and, with the crestfallen soldiers resuming their old look of boredom, they disappeared as mysteriously as they had come.

Out into the gathering gloom we followed too, and trudged to the barracks upon the hill.

At the entrance the familiar “Qui va la?” (Who goes there?) rang a challenge to our approach.  We informed the subaltern that it was Sergeant le Marchand that we sought.

A confusion of calls echoed through the court.  An orderly then announced that Robert le Marchand was sick; this was followed by the report that he was out; then some more conflicting reports, followed by Robert le Marchand himself.  A new-lit lantern in the archway diffused a wan light around his pale face while he peered forward into the dusk.  He could not see at first, but as by a dream-voice out of the mist came his name, twice repeated:  “Robert, Robert.”

Was this some torturing hallucination?  Before he had time to consider that, the reality flung herself into his arms.  Again and again he clasped the nestling figure, as if to assure himself that it was not an apparition that he held but his very own sweetheart.

They stood there in the archway, quite oblivious to the passing soldiers.  The soldiers seemed to understand and, smiling approval of this new entente—­America in the arms of France—­they silently passed along.

The first transports of surprise and joy being over, he begged for an explanation of this miracle.  Briefly I sketched the doings of the day, and as he saw this wisp of a girl braving all dangers for love’s sake, he was in one moment terror-stricken at the risks she had run, and in the next aglow with admiration for her splendid daring.  Dangers had haloed her and he sat silent like a worshiper.

“Instead of a tragedy,” he exclaimed, “it’s like a story with a happy ending.  But let me tell how narrowly we escaped a tragic ending,” he added, drawing Marie closer to him.

On the fifth of August it seems that his squad had been stationed upon the bridge over the Seine at Corbeille.  The orders were to prevent any passage over the bridge and under the bridge—­ particularly the latter, as the authorities suspected an attempt upon the part of enemy plotters to use the waterways in and out of Paris.  Traffic had been suspended and orders had been explicit:  “Shoot any water-craft, without challenge, as it turns the bend at the Corbeille bridge.”