, it is only necessary that one of my men take your
statement at your house; after that you are free.

"Come, Maceioe," and he shook the prisoner by the shoulder, "you take the
midnight train with me back to Paris--you too, madame."

* * * * *

And so I say again, and this time you must agree with me, that strange
happenings, often with a note of terror in them, occur now and then in
my lost village by the sea.

[Illustration: cigar]

* * * * *

[Illustration: soldiers]

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE HORRORS OF WAR

At the very beginning of the straggling fishing-village of Pont du Sable
and close by the tawny marsh stands the little stone house of the mayor.
The house, like Monsieur le Maire himself, is short and sturdy. Its
modest facade is half hidden under a coverlet of yellow roses that have
spread at random over the tiled roof as high as the chimney. In front,
edging the road, is a tidy strip of garden with more roses, a wood-pile,
and an ancient well whose stone roof shelters a worn windlass that
groans in protest whenever its chain and bucket are disturbed.

I heard the windlass complaining this sunny morning as I passed on my
way through the village and caught sight of the ruddy mayor in his blue
blouse lowering the bucket. The chain snapped taut, the bucket gulped
its fill, and Monsieur le Maire caught sight of me.

"_Ah bigre!_" he exclaimed as he left the bucket where it hung and came
forward with both hands outstretched in welcome, a smile wrinkling his
genial face, clean-shaven to the edges of his short, cropped gray
side-whiskers, reaching well beneath his chin. "Come in, come in," he
insisted, laying a persuasive hand on my shoulder, as he unlatched his
gate.

It is almost impossible for a friend to pass the mayor's without being
stopped by just such a welcome. The twinkle in his eyes and the hearty
genuineness of his greeting are irresistible. The next moment you have
crossed his threshold and entered a square, low-ceiled room that for
over forty years has served Monsieur le Maire as living room, kitchen,
and executive chamber.

He had left me for a moment, as he always does when he welcomes a
friend. I could hear from the pantry cupboard beyond the shivery tinkle
of glasses as they settled on a tray. He had again insisted, as he
always does, upon my occupying the armchair in the small parlour
adjoining, with its