“Neither have I,” she said. “Not since January. She seems to be a bird of passage through other people’s lives.”
Bigourdin laughed, shaking a great forefinger. “I bet that is not original. I bet you are quoting your old philosopher of a father!”
She coloured and said defiantly: “Yes. I confess it. It is none the less true.”
“And how is the good Fortinbras?” asked Martin, to turn a distressful conversation.
“A merveille! We are expecting him by any train. It is I who am making him come. To-morrow I may be called out. France will want more than the Troupes Métropolitaines and the Réserves to fight the Germans. They will want the Territorials, et c’est moi, l’armée territoriale.” He thumped his chest. “It was written that I should strike a blow for France like my fathers. But while I am striking the blow who is to look after my little Félise and the Hôtel des Grottes? It is well to be prepared. When the mobilisation is ordered, there will be no more trains for civilians.”
“And what do you feel about the war, Félise?” asked Martin.
She clenched her hands: “I would give my immortal soul to be a man!” she cried.
Bigourdin hugged her. “That is a daughter of France! I am proud of our little girl. On dirait une Jeanne d’Arc. But where is the Frenchwoman now who is not animated by the spirit of La Pucelle d’Orléans?”
“In the meanwhile, mon oncle,” said Félise, disengaging herself demurely from his embrace, “Martin looks exceedingly dusty and hungry, and no one has even suggested that he should wash or eat or have his bag carried up to his room.”
Bigourdin regarded her with admiration. “She is wonderful. She thinks of everything. Baptiste. Take up Monsieur Martin’s things to the chambre d’honneur.”