“In Paris she will be more comfortable than here,” said the kind surgeon.  He was a reservist, and in times of peace a fashionable physician and as much at his ease in a boudoir as in a field hospital.  “Perhaps if I saw Madame Benet?”

At the suggestion the countess was overjoyed.  But they found Madame Benet in a state of complete collapse.  The conduct of the Germans had brought about a nervous breakdown.

“Though the bridges are destroyed at Meaux,” urged the surgeon, “even with a detour, you can be in Paris in four hours.  I think it is worth the effort.”

But the mere thought of the journey threw Madame Benet into hysterics.  She asked only to rest, she begged for an opiate to make her sleep.  She begged also that they would leave the door open, so that when she dreamed she was still in the hands of the Germans, and woke in terror, the sound of the dear French voices and the sight of the beloved French uniforms might reassure her.  She played her part well.  Concerning her Marie felt not the least anxiety.  But toward Briand, the chauffeur, the new arrivals were less easily satisfied.

The general sent his adjutant for the countess.  When the adjutant had closed the door General Andre began abruptly: 

“The chauffeur Briand,” he asked, “you know him; you can vouch for him?”

“But, certainly!” protested Marie.  “He is an Italian.”

As though with sudden enlightenment, Marie laughed.  It was as if now in the suspicion of the officer she saw a certain reasonableness.  “Briand was so long in the Foreign Legion in Algiers,” she explained, “where my husband found him, that we have come to think of him as French.  As much French as ourselves, I assure you.”

The general and his adjutant were regarding each other questioningly.

“Perhaps I should tell the countess,” began the general, “that we have learned—­”

The signal from the adjutant was so slight, so swift, that Marie barely intercepted it.

The lips of the general shut together like the leaves of a book.  To show the interview was at an end, he reached for a pen.

“I thank you,” he said.

“Of course,” prompted the adjutant, “Madame d’Aurillac understands the man must not know we inquired concerning him.”

General Andre frowned at Marie.

“Certainly not!” he commanded.  “The honest fellow must not know that even for a moment he was doubted.”

Marie raised the violet eyes reprovingly.

“I trust,” she said with reproach, “I too well understand the feelings of a French soldier to let him know his loyalty is questioned.”

With a murmur of appreciation the officers bowed and with a gesture of gracious pardon Marie left them.

Outside in the hall, with none but orderlies to observe, like a cloak the graciousness fell from her.  She was drawn two ways.  In her work Anfossi was valuable.  But Anfossi suspected was less than of no value; he became a menace, a death-warrant.