The third story was of a woman whom the Mayoress had often entertained in her homes, both official and private.  When this woman, who had lived a life of such ease as the mother of eleven children may, was forced to take over the conduct of her husband’s business (he was killed immediately) she discovered that he had been living on his capital, and when his estate was settled her only inheritance was a small wine-shop in Paris.  She packed her trunks, spent what little money she had left on twelve railway tickets for the capital, and settled her brood in the small quarters behind the estaminet—­fortunately the lessee, who was unmarried, had also been swept off to the Front.

The next morning she reopened the doors and stood smiling behind the counter.  The place was well stocked.  It was a long while before she was obliged to spend any of her intake on aught but food and lights.  So charming a hostess did she prove that her little shop was never empty and quickly became famous.  She had been assured of a decent living long since.

IV

When I arrived in Paris in May (1916) a little girl had just been decorated by the President of the Republic.  Her father, the village baker, had made one of those lightning changes from citizen to soldier and her mother had died a few weeks before.  She was an only child.  The bakery had supplied not only the village but the neighboring inn, which had been a favorite lunching place for automobilists.  Traveling for pleasure stopped abruptly, but as the road that passed the inn was one of the direct routes to the Front, it still had many hasty calls upon its hospitality.

Now, bread-making in France is a science, the work of the expert, not of the casual housewife.  The accomplished cook of the inn knew no more about mixing and baking bread than he did of washing clothes; and there was but this one bakery, hitherto sufficient, for the baker and his wife had been strong and industrious.  The inn was in despair.  The village was in despair.  A Frenchman will go without meat, but life without bread is unthinkable.

No one thought of the child.

It is possible that in her double grief she did not think of herself—­for twenty-four hours.  But the second day after mobilization her shop window was piled high with loaves as usual.  The inn was supplied.  The village was supplied.  This little girl worked steadily and unaided at her task, until her father, a year later, returned minus a leg to give her assistance of a sort.

The business of the bakery was nearly doubled during that time.  Automobiles containing officers, huge camions with soldiers packed like coffee-beans, foot-weary marching regiments, with no time to stop for a meal, halted a moment and bought the stock on hand.  But with only a few hours’ sleep the girl toiled on valiantly and no applicant for bread was turned empty-handed from the now famous bakery.