A figure upon horseback swings round the bend in the road.

“Here’s an officer, Johnny!” cries a friendly voice from the farm gate.

Petit Jean, as upright as a post, brings his rifle from stand-at-ease to the order, and from the order to the slope, with the epileptic jerkiness of a marionette, and scrutinises the approaching officer for stars and crowns.  If he can discern nothing but a star or two, he slaps the small of his butt with ferocious solemnity; but if a crown, or a red hatband, reveals itself, he blows out his small chest to its fullest extent and presents arms.  If the salute is acknowledged—­as it nearly always is—­Petit Jean is crimson with gratification.  Once, when a friendly subaltern called his platoon to attention, and gave the order, “Eyes right!” upon passing the motionless little figure at the side of the road, Petit Jean was so uplifted that he committed the military crime of deserting his post while on duty—­in order to run home and tell his mother about it.

* * * * *

Last of all we arrive at the keystone of the whole fabric—­Madame herself.  She is one of the most wonderful women in the world.  Consider.  Her husband and her eldest son are away—­fighting, she knows not where, amid dangers and privations which can only be imagined.  During their absence she has to manage a considerable farm, with the help of her children and one or two hired labourers of more than doubtful use or reliability.  In addition to her ordinary duties as a parent and fermiere, she finds herself called upon, for months on end, to maintain her premises as a combination of barracks and almshouse.  Yet she is seldom cross—­except possibly when the soldats steal her apples and pelt the pigs with the cores—­and no accumulations of labour can sap her energy.  She is up by half-past four every morning; yet she never appears anxious to go to bed at night.  The last sound which sleepy subalterns hear is Madame’s voice, uplifted in steady discourse to the circle round the stove, sustained by an occasional guttural chord from ’Nri and ’Seph.  She has been doing this, day in, day out, since the combatants settled down to trench-warfare.  Every few weeks brings a fresh crop of tenants, with fresh peculiarities and unknown proclivities; and she assimilates them all.

The only approach to a breakdown comes when, after paying her little bill—­you may be sure that not an omelette nor a broken window will be missing from the account—­and wishing her “Bonne chance!” ere you depart, you venture on a reference, in a few awkward, stumbling sentences, to the absent husband and son.  Then she weeps, copiously, and it seems to do her a world of good.  All hail to you, Madame—­the finest exponent, in all this War, of the art of Carrying On!  We know now why France is such a great country.

VI

YE MERRIE BUZZERS