face in her hands.

The child stirred, awakened by her sobbing.

"Tanne," he cried feebly.

"He will come," she said.

Outside in the mist-soaked lane three toothless fisherwomen gossiped in
whispers.

Almost any day that you pass through the village you will see a chubby
little rascal who greets you with a cheery "_Bonjour_" and runs away,
dragging a tin horse with a broken tail. Should you chance to glance
over my wall you will discover the tattered remnants of two Japanese
lanterns hanging among the fruit-trees. They are all that remain of a
fete save the memory of two friends to whom the whole world now seems
_couleur de rose_.

* * * * *

"Hi, there! wake up! Where's Suzette? Where's the coffee! Daylight and
not a soul up! _Mon Dieu_, what a house! Hurry up, _Mon vieux!_ Alice is
waiting!"

[Illustration: three toothless fisherwomen]

* * * * *

[Illustration: smuggler ship]

CHAPTER FOUR

THE SMUGGLERS

Some centuries ago the windows of my house abandoned on the marsh looked
out upon a bay gay with the ships of Spanish pirates, for in those days
Pont du Sable served them as a secret refuge for repairs. Hauled up to
the tawny marsh were strange craft with sails of apple-green, rose,
vermilion and sinister black; there were high sterns pierced by carved
cabin-windows--some of them iron-barred, to imprison ladies of high or
low degree and unfortunate gentlemen who fought bravely to defend them.
From oaken gunwales glistened slim cannon, their throats swabbed clean
after some wholesale murder on the open seas. Yes, it must have been a
lively enough bay some centuries ago!

To-day Pont du Sable goes to bed without even turning the key in the
lock. This is because of a vast army of simple men whose word, in
France, is law.

To begin with, there are the President of the Republique and the
Ministers of War and Agriculture, and Monsieur the Chief of Police--a
kind little man in Paris whom it is better to agree with--and the prefet
and the sous-prefet--all the way down the line of authority to the
red-faced, blustering _chef de gare_ at Pont du Sable--and Pierre.

On off-duty days Pierre is my gardener at eleven sous an hour. On these
occasions he wears voluminous working trousers of faded green corduroy
gathered at the ankles; a gray flannel shirt and a scarlet cravat. On
other days his short, wiry body is encased in