André saw the old man—scrubbed pink and bristling—beside the guard at the door. With Victor was another of the village fathers—a farmer who had once been a schoolteacher. M. Blanc was a tall, square man, in a rough tweed suit.
“I am here,” said Victor, speaking to both André and the guard—who did not understand a word—“about a matter which demands attention. It is the exasperating fact that an unexploded shell reposes in my—”
André cried, “Wait!” and hastily translated for the guard’s benefit.
Victor remained standing, with open mouth. The guard shouted, and Slim came running. The captain was swiftly consulted, and a demolition squad was rounded up. This took only a few seconds, since disposing of unexploded shells was an ever-present problem.
On being questioned about where the “dud” was, Victor finished his sentence. “In my parlor, near the bay window.”
At the last word, the demolition crew started running.
André asked, “But isn’t Mme. Lescot frightened?”
“She does not even know it is there,” Victor replied. “She has been off helping with some of the children since yesterday. I was obliged to prepare my own supper,” he finished crossly.
Captain Dobie came to the door and gravely shook hands with the two Frenchmen. He eyed Victor curiously. After a moment’s study of the old man, however, he decided that to order Victor to stay out of danger would be a waste of time.
It was M. Blanc who spoke.