ciless indeed. During the years that I have lived here I have seen three inundations. Corpses have rolled upon its flood.'
'Corpses? Really?' Graham laughed a little, looking up at her. She was probably a romancing old lady and the quality went with something meretricious he felt in her voice, dulcetly, beautifully as that enshrined her perfect French. It went with the Second Empire tradition, too, this evocation of swollen tides and helpless, livid forms; a poem by Victor Hugo; a picture by Géricault. 'Why didn't they get out of the way?'
'Ah, you do not know the force and fury of our great rivers when they are unchained by spring among the mountains. They can, suddenly, resistlessly, sweep all before them. They are, in that, like our French nation, led by a Napoleon. My maternal grandfather was one of Napoleon's marshals. We are of plebeian blood on my mother's side; but I think I am prouder of that soldier of fortune than of my crusading ancestors.—You fought in our great war, Monsieur?'
'Yes; I fought,' said Graham, amused. Something in her tone, slightly resentful perhaps of his incredulity and lightness, implied that it had been a privilege to fight for the France that Napoleon fought for, and to claim the war, the victory, as France's alone.
The old lady was silent for a moment, leaning on her stick.
'It's all to the good—your sweeping everything before you—as long as you don't wreck things, isn't it,' said Graham, and though he spoke kindly he was
