Madeleine began to believe her linen was preserving his life.
She tried to be grateful.
Two shirts remained to be strapped. Setting to work one Sunday, she found her chemise was gone. She had used all its stuff. Her impulse, of course, was to purchase a piece of fresh linen. Without a thought she would have done so, but for his idle words. As it was. . . .
The temptation was frightful.
Why should she cut up her own clothes? Besides, faith put in mascots was vain—heathenish. What could they profit a man? Supposing they could. . . . Supposing there was some curious guardian virtue in linen she wore. . . . Well, what—if—there—was?
She thrust the shirt away and went for a walk.
The next morning she bought some new linen. . . .
She came back from Mass a week later and cut up another chemise.
The third winter of the War stole upon a frantic world, stumbling and striking. Lacaze did not come. He had not returned since April—April of 1916. Madeleine began to wonder . . . wonder why he did not appear.
When the New Year was in, she went to the War Office.