Jill allowed herself a smile. 'Yet you struck the curé!'
Mademoiselle Ludérac gazed, then flushed. 'I lost my temper on that day. You have heard of it?'
'I thought it splendid!'
'No; not splendid—stupid. If I had let her go at once she might have been saved.'
'You know—you won't mind my saying so—because I'm so fond of France,' said Jill, stroking the cat which had broken suddenly into thick, clotted purring—'it seems to me that your people are not as kind to animals as ours are. I was Scout Mistress in our village—you've heard of Boy Scouts—before the war, and one of the things we teach them is kindness to animals. There are cases of cruelty, of course; but people, on the whole, do hate it and try to help against it. Whereas here in France, they may be devoted to their own Tou-tou or Minet, but they don't seem to have any sense of responsibility towards other animals. The streets of Buissac are full of starving cats and dogs. And they net the birds to eat, and I'm told that in France chained dogs pay no tax—only dogs at large; and that's why one sees and hears all those miserable animals. In England it's against the law to keep a dog chained up all the time. And I don't believe any English boys nowadays would chase a cat with a dog.'
Mademoiselle Ludérac was looking at her with deep, sad interest. She meditated a moment before she said: 'We are more backward than you in those ways.'
