They saw Manon and Durand descend the steps at the end of the raised path, and walk towards the grey car. Manon stood close to the running-board of the car, a sturdy little woman with a dignity of her own, her tears gone, her eyes steady and determined. Durand introduced her.
“This is Madame Latour.”
Georges Clemenceau removed his hat.
“Madame, Monsieur Durand made you known to me in Amiens. I have been admiring your house of adventure. What can I do for you?”
They understood each other at once, these two.
“Monsieur, I wish you to judge us like a father, myself, my betrothed, and those two men there. I shall speak, and they can answer me. I wish this to be done before all the village, before all those who honour us. I shall tell the truth—the whole truth.”
Clemenceau’s eyes glimmered under their white eyebrows. He considered Manon, and the heart and the head of him found her good.
“Work heals all wounds,” he said, and then, with a smile at this little Frenchwoman, “I am to give you patriarchal justice? What could be better! And the doctor needs my car.”
He turned to Durand.
“Let us have some chairs placed on that path in front of the house. Now, madame.”