“Oui, nous savons bien d’ou il est cure!” cried Jeanne, in admiration and awe.  “C’est bien beau, hein, Maman?” Then suddenly she became silent and thoughtful, remembering the subsequent fate of her friend and hero.

“Dire qu’il est maintenant prisonnier en Alle... en Bochie!” she said.  They had known long ago that he was mentioned in despatches, and they had been on the look-out for the glorious details in print, but only this morning had they heard of his capture.

How proud they were of their gentle cure and brave soldier!  Jeanne had at first been greatly perplexed by the strange dual personality, with its incompatibilities, and many were the questions that had arisen in her active little mind.  “Le cure de Suzanne, c’est autre chose,” she reflected, for though technically a soldier was he not a brancardier rescuing the wounded?  Her own practical conclusions, however, and the answers to her questions smoothed away many difficulties, and perfect faith in her friend did the rest.

Still she had never been able quite to merge the religieux and the poilu into one picture; besides, she liked to play with the idea and confront the one with the other.  “Que va dire Monsieur le cure lorsque le soldat tuera un homme?” And she had slipped into the habit of calling him “Mon soldat et mon cure,” suddenly inspired to adapt the title of Cousin Juliette’s absorbing book, Mon Oncle et mon Cure, and she refused to abandon it when told that they were two separate persons.  For that matter so were the soldat and the cure.

“Maman, nous allons tout de suite preparer son paquet de conforts,” urged Jeanne.  And, thinking out what comforts had best be included in the parcel, her mind went off now in one channel, now in another, as she pictured the priest or the piou-piou.  The latter presented no difficulty—­for him good things to eat were the first necessity—­but the cure would require spiritual comforts.

“Des livres de messe,” she said to herself; and thereupon the image of the cold and hungry soldier arose before her, and “un poulet ou un bon bifteck!” she added.  Then, her eye lighting upon an advertisement in the newspaper before her, “Maman, que veut dire por-ta-tif?” she asked.  The explanation received, she clapped her hands with joy; yes, surely a portable one was the very thing!  “Maman, si nous envoyions a mon cure un autel por-ta-tif?”

But Maman thought that, all things considered, it would be better to send only food in the first parcel.  So Jeanne reconciled herself to the idea, although the cure still remained a shadowy figure in the background with his own especial need.

And prisoners were cold as well as hungry.  What a pity something hot could not be sent.

“Tiens!  J’y suis!” cried Jeanne.  “O Maman, j’ai une si bonne idee!  Si nous envoyions un bon repas bien chaud dans l’auto-cuiseur!” Perhaps it would keep hot for a day or two. How long did it take for a parcel to reach Bochie?