"He--he is the
son of our neighbor, Monsieur Jacot."

"At Saint Philippe?"

"At Saint Philippe, monsieur. We were children together, Gaston and I.
I--I--was glad to see him again, monsieur," sobbed the little maid. "He
is very nice, Gaston."

"When are you to be married?" I ventured after a moment's pause.

"_Ben--eh ben!_ In two years, monsieur--after Gaston finishes his
military service. He--has a good trade, monsieur."

"Soloist?" I asked grimly.

"No, monsieur--tailor for ladies. We shall live in Paris," she added,
and for an instant her eyes sparkled; then again their gaze reverted to
the now sadly twisted apron pocket, for I was silent.

"No more Suzette then!" I said to myself. No more merry, willing little
maid-of-all-work! No more hot mussels steaming in a savory sauce! Her
puree of peas, her tomato farcies, the stuffed artichokes, and her
coffee the like of which never before existed, would vanish with the
rest. But true love cannot be argued. There was nothing to do but to
hold out my hand in forgiveness. As I did so the general rang for his
coffee.

"_Mon Dieu!_" gasped Suzette. "He rings." And flew down to her kitchen.

An hour later the general was sauntering leisurely up the road through
the village over his morning cigar. The daylight train, followed rapidly
by four extra sections, had cleared Pont du Sable of all but two of the
red-trousered infantry--my trombonists! They had arrived an hour and
twenty minutes late, winded and demoralized. They sat together outside
the locked station unable to speak, pale and panic-stricken.

The first object that caught the general's eye as he slowly turned into
the square by the little station was their four red-trousered legs--then
he caught the glint of their two brass trombones. The next instant heads
appeared at the windows. It was as if a bomb had suddenly exploded in
the square.

The two trombonists were now on their feet, shaking from head to foot
while they saluted their general, whose ever-approaching stride struck
fresh agony to their hearts. He was roaring:

"_Canailles! Imbeciles!_ A month of prison!" and "_Sacre bon Dieu's!_"
were all jumbled together. "Overslept! Overslept, did you?" he bellowed.
"In a chateau, I'll wager. _Parbleu!_ Where then? Out with it!"

"_Pardon, mon general!_" chattered Gaston. "It was in the stone house of
the American gentleman by the marsh."

* * * * *

We lunched together in