"Well, well," she laughed. "Of course, we can't let you starve, but you really mustn't eat in here."
If the angels in heaven look anything like that sweet young woman as she appeared to us at that moment—well, it's a great incentive to lead a good life, that's all.
We were ushered into a quaint French dining-room, furnished with hand-carved mahogany. That a carpenter should have such exquisite taste surprised us. We were yet to learn that the artistic sense is a keynote of French character. The owner of the cottage was away at the war; he was one of the poilus who were then, and are still, upholding the martial traditions of a noble fighting race. His wife spread a dainty table for us, and we breakfasted for the first time in France.
Our menu consisted of small mackerel, rolls and coffee! How prosaic it sounds in English! We shall always remember that petit dejeuner in French: Petits maqueraux, petits pains et café-au-lait. What music there is in such a language! The food itself loses its identity and is transformed into the sustenance of the gods!
Days passed by, but there was no word from our colonel, and no orders came for us to move. Had they all forgotten us? Had we by mischance taken the wrong boat and landed in the wrong part of France? What had become of our colonel and the rest of our unit? These thoughts perplexed and worried us. But one day, as we were lunching, a messenger suddenly appeared at the tent door and asked for the senior major.
"Telegram for you, sir," he said.
The major slowly unfolded it, read it as slowly, refolded it and placed it in his pocket without a word. Could it be from the colonel? If so, where was he? The major continued his meal. At last Fraser could bear the suspense no longer.
"Was that a message from the colonel?" he inquired anxiously.
"It was," the major replied.
One might have heard the proverbial pin drop—the strain was so intense. Would he never go on? Were we to hear nothing further?