So I pulled the bell communicating with the servants' quarters, threw on a few warmer clothes, and went below. At the foot of the stairs I came upon George and Leon much disheveled, but wide awake.
"There is someone in distress at the gate," I hurriedly explained. "Call off the dogs and go and see who it is. I'll light up in the refectory and wait for you there."
They obeyed, and in the course of three or four minutes returned, bringing with them a much-bedraggled but smiling woman on whose coat was pinned the Red Cross medal.
"I'm the trained nurse. Madame Macherez sent me here to help with your hospital."
"Oh! I'm sure you're welcome, Madame—"
"Guix is my name. I received my orders to join you here three days ago, and communications are so bad that I've come most of the way on foot. I humbly apologize for arriving at such an hour and in such a state."
I hurried Madame Guix off to her apartment, told the boys to wake Julie and have her send us a cup of tea and some refreshments in my little drawing-room. Though it was the middle of August, the rain and dampness were so penetrating that I did not hesitate to touch a match to a brushwood fire that is always prepared in my grate. In a short time my guest reappeared and as she refreshed herself, I busily plied her with questions concerning the events of the last two weeks.
Madame Guix, a woman but little over thirty, came from Choisy-le-Roi (the city of famous Rouget de l'Isle). Merciere by trade, on the death of husband and baby she had adopted the career of infirmiere, and at the outbreak of the war found herself in possession of her diploma and ready to serve. She had enlisted at the big military hospital her native town had installed in the school house, and for three long weeks had sat and waited for something to do.
"Are there no wounded there?"
"Not when I left."