Thus, as she did her hair before the glass in the window, Madeleine could see her door softly opened, to admit the interpreter, who had drawn off his boots and tiptoed in, his brown eyes gleaming greasily at the sight of her bare arms and neck, muttering: “What luck!” The words died on shaking lips and the creased eyelids fluttered over downcast eyes, as she turned in cold fury: “Get out of my bedroom!”
He hesitated, and catching the ewer of common white china she slung it forward with the force of muscles accustomed to tossing swedes to feed the mashing-machine. It broke on his forehead, cutting his eyebrow and deluging him with water. With a gasp he was gone.
She called to Berthe to bring a swab and broom. When the mess was cleared: “That imbecile of an interpreter!” she said.
“It is a dirty type,” grunted the philosophic Berthe. Madeleine forgot the incident.
She recalled it, however, before the new battalion had been under the roof of the Spanish Farm many hours. They broke every rule, stole, destroyed, trespassed, and worst of all, left open the gate from the pasture to the “plain” (the level range of arable), so that the cattle got out and had to be chased back. Madeleine, having expostulated with N.C.O.’s and men, finally appealed to the Major, who sent for the Adjutant. The latter, not allowing for Madeleine’s English, said bluntly that the interpreter had informed him that the people were Germans in disguise, and would be better for a lesson.
Madeleine interposed with such energy and point that the officers promised, in order to get rid of her, to issue orders. Not believing in stones left unturned, Madeleine also wrote to the Chief of the French Mission at Cassel. Then an idea struck her. She looked in her account book, where under the heading “Easthamptonshire Regiment” she noted the name of the dark young officer who spoke French so well, Lieutenant Geoffrey Skene. She wrote to him as well, asking if he would come over and intercede with the troops.
* * * *
The day after, the battalion left, the Major giving her twenty francs for wood burnt, fowls and eggs. As there had been over twenty officers in the mess and nearly nine hundred men in the battalion, Madeleine added up the billeting and mess money and was content. She received an acknowledgment of her letter from the French Mission, but nothing else. Again peace and emptiness fell on the Spanish Farm.
Again, nearly a week elapsed, when Madeleine, stirring the midday soup, saw an officer ride into the courtyard. She called to her father, who was sorting haricots. He went out and returned with Lieutenant Skene.
Madeleine did not understand the English and it did not worry her. She had indeed required this young man to deal with a difficulty, but the need had passed. Still, he might be useful, and she invited him to stay to lunch, calling to Berthe to kill a fowl, while her father got up a bottle of Burgundy. She heard politely a long explanation as to the receipt of her letter, and the impossibility of replying sooner, owing to conditions prevailing in the trenches. She understood what was said, but paid little heed, not being interested. She had found this young man so far “well brought up” and “malin,” “sharp at money” in contest with her father. She now began to see that he was “serviable,” “willing.” This thought, striking against her eternal preoccupation with Georges, kindled a spark.