“Can I see the house?”

“Surely; just wait till I have finished sousing these clothes.”

The room on the ground floor to the left of the hallway was imposing in a stately Old-World way.  The rooms in Wisteria Villa were rooms for personages from Zola; this room was inhabited by ghosts from the pages of Balzac.  It was large, high, and square; the walls were hung with a golden scroll design printed on ancient yellow silk; the furniture was of some rich brown finish with streaks and lusters of bronzy yellow, and a glass chandelier, all spangles and teardrops of crystal, hung from a round golden panel in the ceiling.  Over a severe Louis XVI mantel was a large oil portrait of Pius IX, and on the opposite wall a portrait head of a very beautiful young girl.  Chestnut hair, parted in the fashion of the late sixties, formed a silky frame round an oval face, and the features were small and well proportioned.  The most remarkable part of the countenance were the curiously level eyes.  The calm, apart-from-the-world character of the expression in the eyes was in interesting contrast to the good-natured and somewhat childish look in the eyes of the old Pope.

“Who lived here?”

“An old man (un vieux).  He was a captain of the Papal Zouaves in his youth.  See here, read the inscription on the portrait—­’Presented by His Holiness to a champion (defenseur) of the Church.’”

“Is he still alive?”

“He died three months ago in Paris.  I should hate to die before I see how the war is going to end.  I imagine he would have been willing to last a bit longer.”

“And this picture on the right, the jeune fille?”

“That was his daughter, an only child.  She became a nun, and died when she was still young.  The old man’s gardener comes round from time to time to see if the place is all right.  It is a pity he is not here; he could tell you all about them.”

“You are very fortunate not to have been blown to pieces.  Surely you are very near the trenches.”

“Near enough—­yes, indeed.  A communication trench comes right into the cellar.  But it is quiet in this part of The Wood.  There is a regiment of old Boches in the trenches opposite our territorials, fathers of families (peres de familles), just as they are.  We fire rifles at each other from time to time just to remember it is war (c’est la guerre).  We share the crest together here; nothing depends on it.  What good should we do in killing each other?  Besides it would be a waste of shells.”

“How do you know that the Boches opposite you are old?”

“We see them from time to time.  They are great hands at a parley.  The first thing they tell you is the number of children they have.  I met an old Boche not long ago down by the river.  He held up two fingers to show that he had two children, put his hand out just above his knee to show the height of his first child, and raised it just above his waist to show the height of the second.  So I held up five fingers to show him I had five children, when the Lord knows I have only one.  But I did not want to be beaten by a Boche.”