no time in studying, while the situation that opened bade me sharpen my
wits.

In the five or ten minutes before we joined them the Becketts had
consented--or offered--to help finance the Red Cross crusade. To achieve
this was worthy of the Irish-Italian's talents. But the little dining
room was littered with samples of the travellers' goods: clothing for
repatriated refugees, hospital supplies; papier-mache splints, and even
legs; shoes, stockings, medicines; soup-tablets, and chocolates. The
O'Farrells might be doing evil, but good would apparently come from it
for many. I could hardly advise the Becketts against giving money, even
though I suspected that most of it would stick to O'Farrell's
fingers--even though I knew that the hope of it consoled Signor Giulio
di Napoli for leaving me in my safe niche. Yes, that was his
consolation, I realized. And--there might be something more which I did
not yet foresee. Still, being no better than he was, I was coward enough
to hold my peace.

This was the situation when we set out for Nancy, our big car running
slowly, in order not to outpace the rickety Red Cross cab. We were not
allowed by the military authorities to enter Toul, so our way took us
through delightful old Commercy, birthplace of Madeleines. Of course
the town had things to make it famous, long before the day of the
shell-shaped cakelets which all true sons and daughters of France adore.
Somebody founded it in the ninth century, when the bishops of Metz were
the great overlords of its lords. It was a serious little city then, and
Benedictine monks had a convent there in the Middle Ages. The fun began
only with the building of the chateau, and the coming of the Polish
Stanislas, the best loved and last Duke of Lorraine. He used to divide
his years between Nancy, Luneville, and Commercy; and once upon a time,
in the third of these chateaux, the _chef_ had a _chere amie_ named
Madeleine. There was to be a fete, and the lover of Madeleine was
racking his tired brain to invent some new dainty for it. "_I_ have
thought of something which can make you famous," announced the young
woman, who was a budding genius as a cook. "But, _mon cher_, it is my
secret. Even to you I will not give it for nothing. I will sell it at a
price."

The _chef_ feigned indifference; but each moment counted. The Duke
always paid in praise and gold for a successful new dish, especially a
cake, for he was fond of sweets. When Madeleine boast