"Marguerite Clement?" a voice asked, and a uniformed boy stepped into the room.
"She not here—but I am ze father."
And Clement's shaking hands stretched for the envelope the boy held between his fingers.
"Ne pleure pas, don't cry. A million sons of other mothers have paid the price. Be brave."
He did not cry. "Be French, quoi!"
But the mother cried. Clement seemed to have aged ten years in ten minutes. The other men present withdrew to the remotest corners of the room. Only old Bideaux emptied his glass, muttering a terrible oath.
"He has sold his life dearly—friends. The letter says we shall soon receive his Croix de Guerre and his Legion d'Honneur medal. What a son I had! What a son we had!"
"A brave son," they all said.
Mamma Clement was in the other room crying softly. The men tried to console the father.
Suddenly they all stopped talking. Steps were heard on the stairway. They looked one at the other.