“Bonjour, Mesdames,” he greeted us, taking off his cap and came up for a chat.  We were amazed at his charm and intelligence.  He had come back thus alone “because, Mademoiselle, this is my home.  An old man can best serve his country by living off his own land.  What good is he in a strange province where they eat such ridiculous things, and where everyone has the craze for machinery?  Besides, the more one’s home is ruined the greater the obligation to return and rebuild it. C’est un devoir, Mademoiselle.” His place was here, unless—­with a twinkle in my direction—­Mademoiselle would take him back to America with her, in which case he would willingly leave.  I laughed at the compliment and told him to name the day and the boat.

Food?  He had scratched a little garden by his door and had plenty, thank you.  Clothing?  “Do I not look well dressed, Mademoiselle?” We admitted that he looked ready for a fete.  Company?  “Ah, Mademoiselle, memories, memories!  I smoke my pipe and I repeople this village.  It is alive for me.  Look, Mademoiselle, that is where the church was—­it was a pretty church.  And there was the mairie.  Only”—­with a shrug of good humored despair—­“now I have no more tobacco.  These messieurs”—­indicating the soldier and the Germans who were smiling good naturedly—­“are kind enough to share theirs with me, but they are not very rich themselves, you see,” at which they all laughed at their common plight.  Here at last was something that we could offer.  I usually kept cigarettes with me for such emergencies.  And now I produced two boxes of them and several packages of American matches.

“Mademoiselle, I accept them with my profound thanks,” said the old gallant with a bow, removing his cap.

At length we had to leave.  A prisoner stepped forward to crank my car, and all of them, the dauntless Frenchman in the center, lined up and gave us the military salute.  Before reentering the woods I looked back and saw the blue-coated figure offering a light to the green coat.  From cigarette tip to cigarette tip the fraternal spark was being transmitted:  the spark that crosses borders and nationalities, that glows in the darkness, and puts mankind at peace.  And so we left them all—­smoking; smoking out there in the ruins, smoking and dreaming of home.  Of home and love unattainable beyond the Rhine; of home and love buried forever in the wreckage of war and of time.

* * * * *

This week Mademoiselle Froissart and I spent forty-eight hours in Paris, during which time we purchased one thousand toys for our Christmas party.  Such a time as I had coralling a taxi to carry our large crate of playthings to the station.  Paris was gay and crowded, making up for its four years of gravity, and the conscienceless taxi drivers were having pretty much their own way, refusing all that were going in a direction that did not suit their convenience, and