“The unfortunate part of the matter,” said Maître Pépineau, “is that Madame Morin has appointed official trustees to carry on the estate until Monsieur Gaspard Morin can make his own arrangements. The result is that you have no locus standi as a resident in the house. I pointed this out to her. But you know, in spite of her good qualities, she was obstinate…. It pains me greatly, my dear child, to have to state your position.”
“I am then,” said Jeanne, “sans-asile—homeless?”
“As far as the house of Monsieur Gaspard Morin is concerned—yes.”
“And my English soldiers?” asked Jeanne.
“Alas, my child,” replied the old man, “you will find them everywhere.”
Which was cold consolation. For however much inspired by patriotic gratitude a French girl may be, she cannot settle down in a strange place where British troops are billeted and proceed straightway to minister to their comfort. Misunderstandings are apt to arise even in the best regulated British regiments. In the house of Aunt Morin, in Frélus, her position was unassailable. Anywhere else …
“So, my good Toinette,” said Jeanne, after having explained the situation to the indignant old woman, “I can only go back to my friend in Paris and reconstitute my life. If you will accompany me——?”
But no. Toinette had the peasant’s awful dread of Paris. She had heard about Paris: there were thieves, ruffians that they called apaches, who murdered you if you went outside your door.
“The apaches,” laughed Jeanne, “were swept away into the army on the outbreak of war, and they’ve nearly all been killed, fighting like heroes.”
“There are the old ones left, who are worse than the young,” retorted Toinette.