the provinces, as they thought he had, but had been ensnared by some
woman in Paris who had pulled him away from a passing tram on the rue
de la Gaiete. One day the _vaguemestre_ brought him a letter. He was
very dizzy when he read it. Everything swam round. Rage and relief
combated together in his limited brain. Rage and relief--rage and
relief! He could take his letter to the authorities and demand his
release--or----

For now he had five children, had Maubert. No one would question it.
In his hand lay the letter of his wife. Five children. The fifth just
born. That meant release from the service of his country. She said she
was sorry. That she had done it for him. He would understand. But
Maubert did not understand. He remembered his misspent permission, and
the thought of it nauseated him. She, too. The thought of it nauseated
him. Certainly he did not understand.

On the other hand, the authorities had on their books the date of his
permission. He looked again at the letter of his wife. The dates
coincided admirably. He had but to go to his superior officer and show
him the letter of his wife, announcing the birth of their fifth child.
Then he would be free. Free from the service of his country, the
hated service, the examining of passports presented by a rushing
General, by a rushing ambulance, by some rushing motor that was
perhaps carrying a spy.

He so hated it all. But now, more than anything else, he hated his
wife. He would accept his release and go home and kill her. He
wouldn't be free any more if he did that, however. He argued it out
with himself. So he couldn't kill her. He must accept it. If he
accepted his release from the service of his country, he must accept
it on her terms. He spent a long day in the rain and the wind,
thinking it out. But he thought it out at last. He would accept her
terms, obtain his release, go home and see--and then decide.

He told his Colonel about it, and his Colonel chaffed him, and looked
over some papers, and finally set in motion the mechanism by which he
was finally set free from the service of his country. It took some
weeks before this was accomplished, but it was finally done. And when
he arrived in Paris, coming down from his post in the First Zone of
the Armies, he was painfully sober. No more wine that day for him. No
more wine, bought at the _estaminet_ before he left, or bought during
the long journey down to Paris. No more zig-zagging up the rue de la