At the next house the owner—a small, wizened lady of negligible physique but great staying power—entered upon a duet with Alphonso, which soon reduced that very moderate performer to breathlessness. He shrugged his shoulders feebly, and cast an appealing glance towards the Lieutenant.
"What does she say?" inquired Cockerell.
"She say dis' ouse no good, sair! She 'ave seven children, and one malade—seek."
"Let me see," commanded the practical officer.
He insinuated himself as politely as possible past his reluctant opponent, and walked down the narrow passage into the kitchen. Here he turned, and inquired—
"Er—ou est la pauvre petite chose?"
Madame promptly opened a door, and displayed a little girl in bed—a very flushed and feverish little girl.
Cockerell grinned sympathetically at the patient, to that young lady's obvious gratification; and turned to the mother.
"Je suis tres—triste," he said; "j'ai grand miséricorde. Je ne placerai pas de soldats ici. Bon jour!"
By this time he was in the street again. He saluted politely and departed, followed by the grateful regards of Madame.