"Four Rochets," said the brigadier, consulting his paper, "two
Delages, two FIATS … Mademoiselle, here is yours, and yours. The
Lieutenant Denis will be here in a moment. He fears the Rochets will be
too heavy for you, but we must see."
The lieutenant who had been at dinner the night before entered the shed, greeted them, and turned to Stewart. "That car is too heavy for your strength, mademoiselle. It is not a car for a lady."
"I like the make," she said stiffly, conscious of the ears which listened in the shed.
"See if you can start her now, mademoiselle," said the brigadier, arranging the levers.
There was a still hush in the shed as Stewart bent to the handle. Fanny, standing by the Rochet which had been assigned to her, felt her heart thumping.
("Tu vas voir!" whispered the little soldiers watching brightly from behind the cars. "Attends, attends un peu! Pour les mettre en marche, les tacots, c'est autre chose!")
Stewart, seizing the handle, could not turn it. In the false night of the shed the lights shone on polished lamps, on glass and brass, on French eyes which said: "That's what comes of it!"—which were ready to say—"March out again, Englishwomen, ridiculous and eager and defeated!"
Fanny, looking neither to right nor left, prayed under her breath —"Stewart, Stewart we can never live in this shed if you can't start her. And if you can't, nobody else can…."
There was a spurt of life from the engine as it back-fired, and Stewart sprang away holding her wrist with the other hand. The lieutenant, the brigadier, and a driver from a car near by crowded round her with exclamations.
"You advanced the spark too much," said the driver to the brigadier. "Tenez! I will retard it."