[Illustration:  A visit at the chateau.]

We had, too, sometimes a doctor from one of the neighbouring villages.  He had married an Englishwoman.  They had a nice house and garden and he often had English boys over in the summer to learn French.  He brought them occasionally to us for tea and tennis, begging us not to speak English to them.  But that was rather difficult, with the English terms at tennis—­horses and dogs always spoken to in English.  One could not speak French to a fox-terrier bred in Oxfordshire.

* * * * *

Another pretty, simple fete was the Blessing of the Flag given by Francis to the Pompiers of Montigny, our little village in the woods just above the chateau.  My husband had always promised them a flag, but he died before their society was formed.  Three years after his death, when we were living in the small place which now belongs to my son, a deputation arrived from Montigny one Sunday afternoon to ask if Francis would give the flag his father had promised.  This of course he was delighted to do.  He knew all the men and they all knew him—­had seen him since he was a baby—­all of them had worked in his father’s woods, and two or three of the older ones had taken care of him and his gun when he first began to shoot.

His father gave him a gun when he was twelve years old—­had it made at Purdy’s in London, a reduced model of his own.  No one is allowed to shoot in France till he is sixteen years old and then must have his “permis de chasse” duly signed by the Mayor.  So it was rather difficult to get Francis and his gun into the woods—­once there they were safe.  Nothing would have induced him to let any of the men carry it.  He walked beside the keeper with his gun over his shoulder just like him; they did meet two gendarmes one day and quickly the gun was given to some one else.  I think the gendarmes quite realised the situation (Labbey, the keeper, said they knew all about it), but they were friends of the family, W.’s appointment, probably, and asked no questions.

It was necessary of course to consult the local authorities before deciding such an important question as the presentation of a flag to the Pompiers.  Francis went over two or three days later and interviewed the cure, the Mayor and the school-master, found out where the flag must be ordered in Paris and decided the day a fortnight later, a Sunday, of course.  The function was to consist of a service and sermon at the church and a “vin d’honneur” offered by the Pompiers at the Mairie, which they hoped Madame Waddington would grace by her presence.

The flag was duly ordered, sent direct to Montigny and everything was ready on the appointed day.  We had fine weather, a bright, cold November afternoon; the country looked beautiful, all the trees red and yellow, a black line of pines in the middle of the woods.  The long straggling village street, ending at the church on the top of the hill, was full of people; all the children in the middle of the road, their mothers dashing after them when they heard the horn of the auto.