Chalk letters on a piece of broken slate indicate that this is the "Bureau de la 22e."
An old bent and withered woman, leaning on a cane, issued from this office-chapel as we approached.
"Why that's mother Tesson," exclaimed Nourrigat. "Good evening, mother; how's your man to-day?"
"Better, sir. Much better, thank you. They've taken very good care of him at your hospital."
The old couple had absolutely refused to evacuate their house. The Sous-Prefet, the Prefet, all the authorities had come and insisted, but to no avail.
"We've lost everything," she would explain. "Our three cows, our chickens, our pigs. Kill us if you like, but don't force us to leave home. We worked too hard to earn it!"
And so they had hung on as an oyster clings to its rock. One shell had split their house in twain, another had flattened out the hayloft. The old woman lay on her bed crippled with rheumatism, her husband a victim of gall stones. Their situation was truly most distressing.
But there were the soldiers. Not any special company or individual—but the soldiers, the big anonymous mass—who took them in charge and passed them on from one to another.
"We leave father and mother Tesson to your care," was all they said to the new comers as they departed. But that was sufficient, and so the old couple were nursed, clothed and fed by those whom one would suppose had other occupations than looking after the destitute.