As he came to the head of the table, he said: "My good people, we will serve ourselves as best we can with the cook's aid. We have no waitress to-night. But it is our last dinner. A camp under marching orders cannot fuss over trifles."
"Where is Angéle?" asked the Divorcée. "Is she ill?" And she turned to the door.
"Come back!" said the Doctor, sharply. "You can't help her now. Better leave her alone!"
As if by instinct, we all knew what had happened.
"Who brought the news?" some one asked.
"They gave it to me at the Mairie as I passed," replied the Doctor, "and the garde champêtre told me what the envelope contained. He fell at Charleroi."
"Poor Angéle," exclaimed the Trained Nurse. "Are you sure I could not help her?"
"Sure," said the Doctor. "She took it as a Frenchwoman should. She snatched the baby from its cradle, and held it a moment close to her face. Then she lifted it above her head in both hands, and said, almost without a choke in her throat, 'Vive la France, quand même!'—and dropped. I put them on the bed together, she and the boy. She was crying like a good one when I left her. She's all right."
"Poor child—and that tiny baby!" exclaimed the Divorcée, wiping her eyes.
"Fudge," said the Doctor. "She is the widow of a hero, and the mother of the hero's son. Considering what life is, that is to be one of the elect of Fate. She'll go through life with a halo round her head, and, like most of the French women I have seen, she'll wear it like a crown. It becomes us, in the same spirit, to partake of the food before us. This life is a wonderful spectacle. If you saw an episode like that in a drama, at the theatre, you would all cheer like mad."