How proud they were of their gentle curé and brave soldier! Jeanne had at first been greatly perplexed by the strange dual personality, with its incompatibilities, and many were the questions that had arisen in her active little mind. "Le curé de Suzanne, c'est autre chose," she reflected, for though technically a soldier was he not a brancardier rescuing the wounded? Her own practical conclusions, however, and the answers to her questions smoothed away many difficulties, and perfect faith in her friend did the rest.
Still she had never been able quite to merge the religieux and the poilu into one picture; besides, she liked to play with the idea and confront the one with the other. "Que va dire Monsieur le curé lorsque le soldat tuera un homme?" And she had slipped into the habit of calling him "Mon soldat et mon curé," suddenly inspired to adapt the title of Cousin Juliette's absorbing book, Mon Oncle et mon Curé, and she refused to abandon it when told that they were two separate persons. For that matter so were the soldat and the curé.
"Maman, nous allons tout de suite préparer son paquet de conforts," urged Jeanne. And, thinking out what comforts had best be included in the parcel, her mind went off now in one channel, now in another, as she pictured the priest or the piou-piou. The latter presented no difficulty—for him good things to eat were the first necessity—but the curé would require spiritual comforts.
"Des livres de messe," she said to herself; and thereupon the image of the cold and hungry soldier arose before her, and "un poulet ou un bon bifteck!" she added. Then, her eye lighting upon an advertisement in the newspaper before her, "Maman, que veut dire por-ta-tif?" she asked. The explanation received, she clapped her hands with joy; yes, surely a portable one was the very thing! "Maman, si nous envoyions à mon curé un autel por-ta-tif?"
But Maman thought that, all things considered, it would be better to send only food in the first parcel. So Jeanne reconciled herself to the idea, although the curé still remained a shadowy figure in the background with his own especial need.
And prisoners were cold as well as hungry. What a pity something hot could not be sent.
"Tiens! J'y suis!" cried Jeanne. "Ô Maman, j'ai une si bonne idee! Si nous envoyions un bon repas bien chaud dans l'auto-cuiseur!" Perhaps it would keep hot for a day or two. How long did it take for a parcel to reach Bochie?
But Maman decided this plan could not be risked; there was often delay, and the moist food might turn sour.
A little chilled but nowise daunted, for she was sure the hay-box would come in somehow, Jeanne remained for some time plunged deep in thought. Then came light and her face grew radiant. Why not send the auto-cuiseur filled with dry food? Les Boches would surely give, or sell, some boiling water and let him just start cooking on their stove. And he would be able to use the cooker constantly, buying des choses pas chères to cook; and yes, why not slip into the package a copy of Plats économiques, the little cookery book whose recipes they had found so satisfactory?
"Et mon curé?" But now the two figures merged more nearly than ever before into one, and Jeanne felt that his first need was one with that of the soldier, and the marmite would hold enough for both.