“Never!” he said stubbornly, halting in the doorway.  “This is mademoiselle’s boudoir.  Her drawing-room as well.  I am going to the mill house and—­”

He staggered.

So Sara Lee’s room had a different occupant for a time, a thin and fine-worn young Belgian, who yielded to Sara Lee when Jean gave up in despair, and who proceeded, most unmanfully, to faint as soon as he was between the blankets.

If Sara Lee hoped to nurse Henri she was doomed to disappointment.  Jean it was who took over the care of the boy, a Jean who now ate prodigiously, and whistled occasionally, and slept at night robed in his blanket on the floor beside Henri’s bed, lest that rebellious invalid get up and try to move about.

On the first night, with the door closed, against Henri’s entreaties, while the little house received its evening complement of men, and with Henri lying back on his pillows, fresh dressed as to the wounds in his arm and chest, fed with Sara Lee’s daintiest, and resting, Jean found the boy’s eyes resting on the mantel.

“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.