“You think so.”
“The roof can be covered with felt, and later it can be retiled. A door and some windows—and there you are.”
Lefèbre hung his cassock over the sill of one of the empty window spaces.
“I will go up to the château and get a roll of felt. Would you take down those tiles?”
“It would be better.”
“If you could spare five minutes later in the day for a little criticism?”
“I may be able to give you a hand,” Brent said.
Monsieur Lefèbre went for some tools, nails and a roll of felt, and when he returned to the Rue Romaine he found Mère Vitry standing in the garden under the old fruit tree. She was smiling, a child’s wonder in her eyes.
“Look, monsieur, a miracle! Someone has been here.”
“A friend, perhaps.”