“Can I be of any assistance?”

“Rather!  Seems good to hear English, thank you.”

“Really?”

“Yes.  Might I ask where you come from?”

“The States.”

“Do you know Cleveland?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ve got a mother and three brothers buried in that cemetery.  Colonials, you know.  I’m English—­from Bath—­oldest son.  Couldn’t see things their way.  Done better perhaps if I’d joined the others out there.”

I smiled at this unexpected and impromptu confession.  The boy saw it and reddened.

“Is there anything particular you want me to say to this man for you?” said I quickly, to cover his embarrassment.

“No, thank you.  But there’s one thing you might be able to tell me.”

“What?”

“Do you think we’ll be ‘home’ in time to eat Christmas dinner?”

“Rather!”

“Thank you so much!  Good-bye.”

“Good-bye and good luck to you.”

And after snapping his photograph I started on down the street in haste, for I could see George and Leon, who had gone on ahead, now running towards me.

“Vite, Madame.  They need you!”

“Who?”

“The English.  They can’t make people understand.”

I pressed forward, and came upon a crowd of gapers standing outside a shop.  Within two English officers were arguing in their native tongue with an irate butcher, who waved one arm wildly in the air, and brandished a huge knife in the other, shouting frantically all the while,

“La’ voila-la voila!” said George and Leon, almost dragging me forward, proud to exhibit my accomplishments. “La voila!  Vous etes sauves.”

My greatest desire was to turn about and run, but the crowd parted to let me through.

“Would you mind, Madame?” pleaded the lieutenant.  “We need your assistance to make this man understand that we’re drafting meat for the army.  We’ll pay cash, but be might just as well give it gracefully, for we have the right to force his ice box if he refuses.”

I explained gently, and when things were calm was about to slip away.  The officer touched me on the shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Madame, but I’m afraid we’ll have to draft you, too.  Our time is limited and if a scene like this happen at every shop we’ll be punished for tardiness!  Here’s my order to draft an interpreter,” and he put his hand into his pocket.

I was somewhat abashed.

“Might I ask when you will release me?”

“Just as soon as we’ve the supply we need.”

“Will you give me ten minutes to arrange my affairs here?”

“Certainly.  But remember you’re on parole!”

Outside I explained the situation to George and Leon, and scribbling a note to friends in Barbizon, told the boys to drive over and reassure the others—­make them comfortable at the Clef d’Or, and tell them to expect me that evening.