"Dear and obstinate friend," said Henri, "do you wish me to be happy?"

"You shall not leave the room or your bed. That is arranged for."

"How?" demanded Henri with interest.

"Because I have hidden away your trousers."

Henri laughed, but he sobered quickly.

"If you wish me to be happy," he said, "take away that American

photograph. But first, please to bring it here."

Jean brought it, holding it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger.

And Henri lay back and studied it.

"It is mademoiselle's fiance," he said.

Jean grunted.

"Look at it, Jean," Henri said in his half-bantering tone, with despair

beneath it; "and then look at me. Or no--remembering me as I was when

I was a man. He is better, eh? It is a good face. But there is a jaw,

a--Do you think he will be kind to her as she requires? She requires

much kindness. Some women--"

He broke off and watched Jean anxiously.

"A half face!" Jean said scornfully. "The pretty view! As for

kindness--" He put the photograph face down on the table. "I knew

once a man in Belgium who married an American. At Antwerp. They were

most unhappy."

Henri smiled.

"You are lying," he said with boyish pleasure in his own astuteness.

"You knew no such couple. You are trying to make me resigned."

But quite a little later, when Jean thought he was asleep, he said:

"I shall never be resigned."

So at last spring had come, and Henri and the great spring drive. The

Germans had not drained the inundation, nor had they broken through to

Calais. And it is not to be known here how much this utter failure had

been due to the information Henri had secured before he was wounded.

One day in his bed Henri received a visit from the King, and was left

lying with a decoration on his breast and a beatific, if somewhat

sheepish, expression on his face. And one night the village was

bombarded, and on Henri's refusing to be moved to the cellar Sara Lee

took up a determined stand in his doorway, until at last he made a most

humiliating move for safety.

Bit by bit Sara Lee got the story, its bare detail from Henri, its

courage and sheer recklessness from Jean. It would, for instance, run

like this, with Henri in a chair perhaps, and cutting dressings--since

that might be done with one hand--and Sara Lee, sleeves rolled up and

a great bowl of vegetables before her: "And when you got through the water, Henri?" she would ask: "What then?"




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