Of course Madame Guix was there to lend a hand, but that hardly altered the situation, so I was obliged to ask the boys to give another “pull” and try to be equal to the work.  Lleon accepted with such alacrity that for the first time it dawned on me that perhaps he had a soft spot in his heart for my pretty little goose girl, and this unsuspected romance, interwoven with the joys and anxieties of the moment, seemed all the more charming.

To cap the climax of misfortune, old Cesar had run a nail into his hoof and Madame Guix spent most of her time between injections of oxygen on the first floor, and iodine and flaxseed poultices in the stables.  This of course meant that all errands outside the village must be made on bicycle, and George was “mustered into service.”  Towards noon on the 27th he made his first return trip from Charly, bringing the mail and the papers, and a very excited countenance.

“Madame, I’ve seen one!” he shouted, as I appeared in the doorway.

“Seen what?”

“Un casque a’ point!”

“A what!”

“Yes—­a pointed helmet.  I was standing by the post office in Charly when a long line of motors passed by on the road to Paris.  I recognized the Belgium uniform, and one of the soldiers leaned out and held up a German helmet!  What a trophy!”

“The Belgians!  What on earth are they doing down here?” thought I. And George guessed my question.

“Oh,” he continued, “you see their regiment was cut in two by the Germans at Charleville and those who escaped managed to get motors and are on their way home—­by a round-about route to Antrwerp via Havre.  The hotel keeper said so.  She offered some wine to one motor full that stopped.”

If that were true it was an amazing bit of news!  Then things were not going as well as the now very reticent papers led one to suppose.  But it all seemed so very distant that I refused to worry.

However, I was about to seek out Madame Guix and tell her what George had reported when an amusing sight caught my eye.

From her open window, towards which she had asked that we push her bed, Yvonne amused herself by calling her ducklings.

“Bour-ree—­bour-ree!”

Then from the farmyard a good two hundred yards distant, would rise the reply, “Quack!  Quack!  Quack!”

Big and small recognized the call of their little mistress and hastened to respond.

“Bouree-bour-ree-bouree!” called Yvonne again and again.

Evidently the ducks decided to hold a consultation and send delegates to see what on earth prevented their friend from caring for them in person since they could hear her voice.  For as I looked across the lawn towards the door, imagine my surprise on catching sight of some thirty or forty Rouenese ducks of all sizes waddling up the steps and into the vestibule.

“Bour-ree, bouree!” Yvonne continued.