“There is someone in distress at the gate,” I hurriedly explained.  “Call off the dogs and go and see who it is.  I’ll light up in the refectory and wait for you there.”

They obeyed, and in the course of three or four minutes returned, bringing with them a much-bedraggled but smiling woman on whose coat was pinned the Red Cross medal.

“I’m the trained nurse.  Madame Macherez sent me here to help with your hospital.”

“Oh!  I’m sure you’re welcome, Madame—­”

“Guix is my name.  I received my orders to join you here three days ago, and communications are so bad that I’ve come most of the way on foot.  I humbly apologize for arriving at such an hour and in such a state.”

I hurried Madame Guix off to her apartment, told the boys to wake Julie and have her send us a cup of tea and some refreshments in my little drawing-room.  Though it was the middle of August, the rain and dampness were so penetrating that I did not hesitate to touch a match to a brushwood fire that is always prepared in my grate.  In a short time my guest reappeared and as she refreshed herself, I busily plied her with questions concerning the events of the last two weeks.

Madame Guix, a woman but little over thirty, came from Choisy-le-Roi (the city of famous Rouget de l’Isle). Merciere by trade, on the death of husband and baby she had adopted the career of infirmiere, and at the outbreak of the war found herself in possession of her diploma and ready to serve.  She had enlisted at the big military hospital her native town had installed in the school house, and for three long weeks had sat and waited for something to do.

“Are there no wounded there?”

“Not when I left.”

“Have you ever yet had occasion to nurse a soldier?”

“Yes, of course.  Four days after the declaration when the Forty-ninth Territorials came through Choisy on their forced march to the front, we were suddenly filled up with cases of congestion.  You see, that regiment is Composed of men mostly over forty, and what with the heat, their guns and their sacs, and unaccustomed to such a life, many of them couldn’t stand the strain.  My first patient was a sad little man named Bouteron.

“Bouteron?  What Bouteron?”

“Marcel Bouteron.”

“No!”

“Why?”

“Is he dead?”

“No.”

I breathed again.  Thank God!  Bouteron, Bouteron, our Jolly little Bouteron, gaiety itself, who three weeks ago was the very life and soul of our last house party!  Was it possible?  Already “down and out!” And to think that this strange woman should bring me the news.  I drew my chair nearer to Madame Guix and for two long hours we talked, as only women can.

From Choisy she had sought to exercise her metier to better advantage by approaching the front, so had addressed herself to Madame Macherez in Soissons.  From there she had been sent to me.  Did she think there was any possibility of nursing wounded in our hospital?  We were so far south.