Madeleine got up and moved toward the door. “Oh, well, it’s a pity!” she said.
Blanquart hated to see her go. She was one of the richest “heiresses” in the village (as heiresses go in France), and there was only Marie to divide it with her when old Jerome died. Moreover, she had quite a reputation for the part she had played in the last phases of the War, and it would be a great help to be able to say to the others: “Madeleine Vanderlynden has taken 50,000.” He offered: “Look here, I’ll buy your reparations for 40,000!”
“No, nothing to be done,” was the answer, hand on the latch.
In his heart Monsieur Blanquart pested the sacred peasants. But something must be arranged. “Very well, I sell you 40,000 worth of securities, and you can pay me when you get your ‘Reparations’!”
Madeleine left the doorway and came back to the table. Looking through his stocked portfolio she chose only bearer bonds (coupons appealed to her; the less tangible dividend warrant or inscribed or registered stock did not), some national, some industrial, some lottery. Thus armed, she returned to the farm.
* * * *
Thus came what Politicians called “Peace,” but mostly French people, realists in a sense that the English public never is, spoke of it as the “era of La Galette”—the cake which one could eat and yet have again, the pie in which every one’s finger might be—the lucky-bag into which all might dip.
Upon the mentality of France, with its dominant peasant outlook, only one deep impression was made. The Germans were beaten. Therefore their money could be got at. Anyone who did not get at it was a fool, simply. This was not piracy. The Germans had invited a contest, and lost. The loser pays—that is logic as well as human nature. When the first hints were dropped that there might be delays, even a dwindling of the golden stream that was to flow from Berlin—public feeling became so strong that Government had hastily to vote sums “on account of” the Reparations to be exacted. In every village, men, and more often women, asked each other: “What have you estimated your damages at?” “What have you received on account?” In place of the War-time watchwords “La Patrie est en danger” and “On les aura,” there might very reasonably have been displayed another: “La Galette”—The Cake that every one might take. “L’assiette au beurre”—The butter-dish to grease every itching palm. “Le pot au vin”—The loving-cup that was ever full.
* * * *
Before she could put the War finally away from her, Madeleine had to go through a process which might be called in English, the laying of ghosts. Without active belief in the supernatural, and prone to laughter at those who dared not pass the Kruysabel, after dusk, without crossing themselves (this superstition was one of the safeguards that had kept her meetings with Georges secure), she preserved to the full the clear feeling of all primitives, that the Living are connected with, influenced by, the Departed. The most immediate case was that of her father. Jerome Vanderlynden had never recovered his reason, but had recaptured a few words, and most of his bodily functions. What had been done, or not done, to him, during his eight months behind the German lines, will never be known. A neighbor, also swallowed up by the swift invasion of April, 1918, had seen him, near Lille, working in a field, under German direction, but had not been recognized. At that date, even, the old man had lost his senses. He bore no particular signs of ill-usage, other than the common starvation caused by blockade, and, after weeks of loving care, Madeleine, nearest to him, most like him of all people on earth, managed to make out what he mumbled to himself, with that scared look, when his food was set before him: “There’s nothing left to eat!” he whispered, with a frightened glance around. Then, when coaxed, he would eat, rapidly, defensively.