Early the next morning, after a sleepless night, he found himself in the house of Josef Babette. The man himself was away at the war, his wife and daughter were running the place during his absence. They had only one servant, a relative of Madame Babette, an oldish man, lean and twisted up, with his mouth almost hidden between nose and chin. But he was a good worker; few could surpass him at his labour on the wet level fields. Madame Babette was very industrious, she got out of bed every morning at five and nine at night saw her finishing up the day's labour. So from week to week, her toil went on all the year round. Only on Sunday did she seek a moment's relaxation, then she went to church, told her beads and prayed for her good man who was away in the trenches fighting the battles of France.
Fitzgerald was sitting near the stove, writing up his diary, a habit he contracted at the beginning of the war and which he was still religiously pursuing. Mother Babette was washing her dishes. She was a thin, shrivelled woman of forty years of age, bent a little through hard work but still untiring as an ant.
An adventurous hen was picking up the crumbs under the chairs. Two chickens, less daring than their older feathered friend, came in, stalked gingerly up to their mate, seized each a crumb in their beaks and ran off as fast as their red legs could carry them.
Mother Babette finished her work, wiped the table, dusted the stove, put the plates on the dresser and sat down. Fitzgerald continued writing, but looked up now and again and took in with his eye the walls blackened with smoke, the rafters festooned with spider webs, the strings of onions hanging from the beams, the tall wooden clock beside the dresser and the dog which lay under the table, wagging its tail and shaking its ears as if trying to get rid of flies....
Then Fitzgerald's eyes were attracted by something else. Outside the door Fifi was standing, throwing crumbs to the hens which clustered round her feet. She was a well-built girl of eighteen with velvety black eyes and a fascinating face. She wore a grey blouse and a striped petticoat which reached a little lower than her knees, strong sabots and a kerchief which was tied carelessly around her head. A prudent and hard-working girl, she had already fed the pigs, foddered and milked the cows, in addition to the hundred and one little things which must be done every morning in a farmyard. She was in a good humour when she entered the house, her white teeth and bright eyes were made for laughter, and the girl's face generally wore a provokingly coquettish expression. But behind it all lay hidden a reserve of restraint and dignity which showed itself when the soldiers, speaking as soldiers often speak, went too far with an indelicate jest. Fifi would look steadily, with wide open eyes, at the speaker for a moment, then the eyelids would slowly descend and the girl would rise to her feet and proceed with her work.
This morning, she went up to Fitzgerald where he sat beside the stove, writing.
"To your sweetheart?" she asked.
The Irishman flushed crimson and closed the diary.
"No, I have no sweetheart."
"You haven't slept; you look tired," said Fifi.