“It was you, monsieur, who carried away all that rubbish?”
“No. But miracles happen, madame, even in these days. There is always the miracle of the good man.”
Mère Vitry crossed herself, and looked at the roll of felt under Monsieur Lefèbre’s arm.
“And you—you are going to work, too, monsieur?”
Lefèbre’s jocund face broke into creases.
“I am going to try and put a roof on your cottage. That will be another miracle!”
Manon had gone to the canteen which she and Madame Poupart were to manage with the help of two of the older women. They had had a boy assigned to them, a strong young rascal whose duty was to trundle the day’s provisions down from the château in a hand-truck, chop wood for the stoves, and to make himself useful in any way that God or Manon chose to order. He sulked the first morning, having promised himself the excitement of helping to pull down some of the ruins.
“People who are lazy get no dinner.”
He argued the point with Manon, and it required the dinner hour to convince him that these women were in earnest. When the file of men had passed to the tables with full plates, Master Jacques stood by the iron boiler, holding a tin plate that was empty, and inviting Madame Poupart to use her ladle.
“We had to cut the wood,” said the lady, “to cook your dinner. You refused to cut wood; we give you no dinner.”