And now there was M. Phillipot all alone in the maudite petite maison at Révigny. "Is it that he can live alone? Pensez donc, Mademoiselle! I, moi qui vous parle, must give up my good place with my friends whom I love, to whom I have accustomed myself, and live in that desert of a Révigny. Is it that I shall earn good money there? Monsieur? Il ne gagne rien, mais rien du tout. Pas ça." She clicked a nail against a front tooth and shot an expressive finger into the air.
"Then he must come to Bar-le-Duc."
But—ah, if Mademoiselle only knew what she suffered—Monsieur was possessed of goats—deux chèvres, that he loved. They had followed him in all his journeyings; when they were tired the soldiers gave them rides in the camions. To the South they had gone with him, back to Révigny they had come with him. To part with them would be death. You do not know how he loves them. But could one keep goats in the rue de Véel?
One could certainly not. We looked at Madame. Physical force might get her to Révigny, no other power could. Assuredly we who knew her value could not persuade her. The impasse seemed insurmountable. Then light broke over it, showing the way. If Monsieur wanted his wife he must abandon his goats. It was a choice. Let him make it. Rien de plus simple.
He chose the goats.
[CHAPTER XV]
M. LE POILU
I