V
An hour or two later, Number Nine Platoon, distended with concentrated nourishment and painfully straightening its cramped limbs, decanted itself from the lorry into a little cul-de-sac opening off the Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau in St. Grégoire. The name of the cul-de-sac was the Rue Gambetta.
Their commander, awake and greatly refreshed, looked round him and realised, with a sudden sense of uneasiness, that he was in familiar surroundings. The lorry had stopped at the door of Number Five.
"I don't suppose your Battalion will get back for some time," said the Major. "Tell your Sergeant to put your men into the stable behind this house—there's plenty of straw there—and—"
"Their own billet is just round the corner, sir," replied Cockerell.
"They might as well go there, thank you."
"Very good. But come in with me yourself, and doss here for a few hours. You can report to your C.O. later in the day, when he arrives. This is my pied-à-terre,"—rapping on the door. "You won't find many billets like it. As you see, it stands in this little backwater, and is not included in any of the regular billeting areas of the town. The Town Major has allotted it to me permanently. Pretty decent of him, wasn't it? And Madame Vinot is a dear. Here she is! Bonjour, Madame Vinot! Avez-vous un feu—er—inflammé pour moi dans la chambre?" Evidently the Major's French was on a par with Cockerell's.
But Madame understood him, bless her!
"Mais oui, M'sieur le Colonel!" she exclaimed cheerfully—the rank of Major is not recognised by the French civilian population—and threw open the door of the sitting-room, with a glance of compassion upon the Major's mud-splashed companion, whom she failed to recognise.
A bright fire was burning in the open stove.
Immediately above, pinned to the mantelpiece and fluttering in the draught, hung Cockerell's manifesto upon the subject of non-combatants. He could recognise his own handwriting across the room. The Major saw it too.
"Hallo, what's that hanging up, I wonder?" he exclaimed. "A memorandum for me, I expect; probably from my old friend 'Dados.'[1] Let us get a little more light."
[Footnote 1: D.A.D.O.S. Deputy Assistant Director of Ordnance Stores.]
He crossed to the window and drew up the blind. Cockerell moved too. When the Major turned round, his guest was standing by the stove, his face scarlet through its grime.
"I'm awfully sorry, sir," said Cockerell, "but that notice—memorandum—of yours has dropped into the fire."
"If it came from Dados," replied the Major, "thank you very much!"
"I can't tell you, sir," added Cockerell humbly, "what a fool I feel."
But the apology referred to an entirely different matter.