He apologizes for it, though I find it immaculate.
Shining casseroles hang by the hearth, the three beds are carefully
made, and on the fire something savory is cooking in a _cocotte_.
"It needs a woman's touch," he says smiling. "We are four men and we do
what we can, but--" he finishes with a gesture of the helpless male
entangled in that most clinging, exasperating web of all--cooking and
dish-washing! "_Ca n'en finit plus, Mademoiselle_," he exclaims in
humorous misery. "One has no sooner finished, when one must begin again.
Bah! It is woman's work," with a lordly touch of imperiousness. It is
the ancient voice of Man.
The next house is dark. No one answers my knock, and I lift the latch
and go in. The windows, being broken, are all boarded up to keep out the
dreaded drafts. It is a moment before I can see, though a quavering
voice that is neither man's nor woman's bids me enter. Gradually my eyes
make out two wise old faces of ivory in the obscurity by the hearth.
They are old, old--nobody knows how old they are.
"_Entrez, Madame_," and the old woman rises with difficulty, leaning on
her cane, and draws forward a chair.
"_Bonjour, Madame_," in far-away tones from the aged husband, too feeble
to move alone. I linger for some time with these two dear souls--for
they are scarcely more than souls. We talk of bygone, happy days, of the
war, and of their present needs--so few! Then I tell them I am American.
"American?" says the old man, peering into my face, "that
means--friend.
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