Madame did. She knew, and used to tease me about it. She is one of the few people in the world who know that I still can blush! Do you? No? Ah, but then you have never seen Monsieur! You have never heard him say what he ... what he ... well, you know what he....
There were no dark thoughts in my mind as I sped circuitously homewards, skimming down a by-street every time a gendarme loomed in view; I was thinking of Madame and of the twinkle in her eyes when she talked of le patron, and of the long day spent at N., the story of which had helped to drive away for the moment the most persistent of her idées noires.
[CHAPTER IX]
IN WHICH WE BECOME EMISSARIES OF LE BON DIEU
Now the coming of M. le Curé was in this wise.
We were making up paquets in the Clothes-room, we were grimy, dishevelled and hot, we were in no mood for visitors, we were pining for tea, and yet Madame insinuated her head round the door and announced, "M. le Curé de N." She would have announced the Czar of Russia, or President Wilson, or General Joffre, or the dustman in exactly the same emotionless tones, and with as little consideration for our feelings.
"You go."
"No. You."