"My friend, who is the great Philip Lannes,
the flying man, and I, have looked down upon a battle line fifty, maybe
a hundred miles long, and nearly everywhere the Germans are retreating."
She bent her head a little as she poured the coffee for them, but not
enough to hide the glitter in her eye. "Perhaps the good God intervened
at the last moment, as Father Hansard promised he would," she said
calmly. "At any rate, the Germans are gone. I gathered as much from
chance words of the generals--never before have so many generals
gathered under the Poiret roof, and it will never happen again--but I
wished to hear it from one who had seen with his own eyes."
"We saw them withdrawing, Madame, with these two pairs of eyes of ours,"
said Lannes.
"And then Poiret can go back to his work with the vines. Whether it is
war or peace, men must eat and drink, Monsieur."
"But certainly, Madame, and women too." "It is so. I trust that soon the
Germans will be driven back much faster. The house quivers all the time.
It is old and already several pieces of plaster have fallen."
Her anxiety was obvious. With the Germans driven back she thought now of
the Poiret homestead. John, in the new strength that had come to him
from food and drink, had forgotten for the moment that ceaseless quiver
of the earth. He held the little bottle aloft and poured a thin stream
of wine into his glass. The red thread swayed gently from side to side.
"You speak truly, Madame," he said.
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