Smith reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the two documents he'd already mentioned. He'd have needed the doctor's certificate as he fled the advancing Americans. Without it, the Canadians would have stuck a rifle in his hands and sent him to the trenches, rupture or no rupture. They might have done that anyhow, but he had the paper that said they wouldn't have. He also had the paper that said he'd made his formal peace with the U.S. occupiers. No Canadian could work without that one.

And he had a photograph of himself-a younger version of himself-standing in front of a clapboard house that bore the same address as this big brick office building. A plain woman in a black dress and a frumpy hat stood beside him. "Your wife?" Moss asked.

"That's right." Smith paused, then went on, "Some Yank pilot shot us up as we were leaving-shot up the road, I mean, for the sport of it. He killed my Jane and left me without a scratch-and ever since, I've wished it had been the other way round."

Moss didn't know what to say to that. He'd shot up refugee columns. It was part of war: it disrupted the enemy. He hadn't thought much about the consequences of what he did. He resolutely tried not to think about those consequences now.

"Besides this photograph," he managed at last, "what sort of title can you show to this property? Have you got a deed? Have you got bank records?"

"Haven't got a deed," Smith said. "Used to be bank records- in the bank. Isn't any bank any more. I hear tell Yank soldiers blew the vault open and stole everything inside-everything they wanted, anyway."

That wouldn't have surprised Moss. Among other things, armies were enormous robber bands. He said, "You do understand, lacking the proper papers will make your claim much harder to establish."

"I should hope I understand that," John Smith said. "If I'd reckoned it would be easy, I'd have tried it myself."

"All right," Moss said. "Go through your effects. Whatever you can bring that's evidence you own this land, I want to see it. No matter how unlikely you think it is, I want to see it. If you know people who can testify they know you owned this land, I want to hear from them. I won't kid you, though. We've got our work cut out for us."

"I'll do my best," Smith promised.

When Lucien Galtier saw the green-gray motorcar coming down the road from Riviere-du-Loup toward his farmhouse, he took it for granted at first. He had seen an infinitude of green-gray motorcars and trucks coming down that road, and another infinitude going up it.

Then, after he'd already started turning away, he spun back and stared at the Ford with eyes that wanted to narrow in suspicion and widen in surprise at the same time. He had not seen a green-gray motorcar in some time. The U.S. Army painted its motorcars that color. But the U.S. Army had not occupied the Republic of Quebec since the end of the war-well, since a little after the end of the war.

The Ford pulled off the road and parked beside the farmhouse, as Leonard O'Doull's automobile more commonly did these days. Lucien sighed and walked toward it. "I might have known," he muttered under his breath. "A man may think he has escaped troubles, but troubles never escape a man."

Two men got out of the motorcar. Galtier recognized Bishop Pascal first, more by his vestments than by his own tubby form. His companion, the driver, was whipcord lean and, sure enough, wore U.S. Army uniform. Seeing Lucien approach, he waved. "Bon-jour! " he called in excellent Parisian French. "It is good to see you once more, M. Galtier."

"Bonjour…" As Galtier drew near, he saw that Jedediah Quigley wore eagles on his shoulders, not oak leaves of either gold or silver. He'd been a major when Galtier first made his acquaintance. Now-"Bonjour, Colonel Quigley. You have come up in the world since I saw you last."

"He is the military liaison officer between the United States and the Republic of Quebec," Bishop Pascal said. Hearing the bishop speak ahead of Colonel Quigley surprised Lucien not at all; Pascal had always found the sound of his own voice sweeter and more intoxicating than communion wine.

"An important man indeed," Galtier said. "And how and why does a simple farmer deserve a visit from not only the military liaison officer between the United States and the Republic of Quebec but also the illustrious and holy bishop of Riviere-du-Loup?"

Bishop Pascal had no ear for irony. Colonel Quigley did. One of his eyebrows quirked upward. "It is a matter concerning the hospital," he said.

"What about the hospital?" Galtier demanded, suddenly apprehensive. He saw Marie peering out the kitchen window, no doubt wondering what was going on. He'd been about to ask Quigley and Bishop Pascal to come into the farmhouse so she could serve them tea-or something stronger-and some of the cinnamon buns she'd baked the day before. Now, he was not nearly so sure they were welcome in his house.

"The hospital, of course, is built on land taken from your patrimony," Bishop Pascal said. The plump bishop always looked out for himself first. He had embraced the Americans with indecent haste. Galtier would not have cared to turn his back on him for an instant. But he did understand the way a Quebecois farmer's mind worked.

Colonel Quigley, despite having been in Quebec since 1914, didn't. "And we've been paying you a good rent for it, too," he said gruffly.

"It is my land," Galtier replied with dignity. "And"-his own eyebrow rose-"for some long stretch of time, you paid not a cent of rent. You simply took it, because you had men with guns."

"We suspected your loyalty." Quigley was blunt in a way no Quebecois would have been. "Once we didn't any more, we paid what we owed you."

"If you steal land from a man's patrimony, you are liable to make him disloyal," Galtier said. "Indeed, you are fortunate this did not happen with me." He still marveled that it hadn't. He'd been disloyal after the Americans invaded Quebec. He clearly remembered that. But Nicole had gone to work at the hospital, she and Leonard O'Doull had fallen in love, Quigley had agreed to pay rent, and the Americans had not treated him so badly after all. He'd thrived since they came. Quebec had prospered, too. And he had a half-American grandson. Sure enough, he was at peace with Americans now.

Bishop Pascal said, "Naturally, my son, you can comprehend that it is awkward for this fine hospital to rest on land where, if the owner so desires, he may, at a whim, order it to leave so he might seed the soil with lettuces."

"Lettuces?" Galtier said. "Certainly not. That is wheat land, and wheat land of the first quality, I might add."

Jedediah Quigley seemed to need both hands to hold on to his patience. "Whatever you raised on it is beside the point," he said. "The point is, the Republic of Quebec wants to buy that land from you, so no troubles of the sort Bishop Pascal is talking about can arise. I'm involved here because I am the one who took that land from you in the first place."

"You wish me to sell part of my patrimony?" Galtier knew he sounded as if Colonel Quigley had asked him to sell one of his children. He didn't care. That was how he felt-even if, at times, he wouldn't have minded getting rid of Georges.

"Money can be part of your patrimony, too," Quigley said, which only proved he did not completely understand the folk of Quebec.

"It would be an act of Christian charity, for the sake of the people of Riviere-du-Loup and the surrounding countryside," Bishop Pascal said. "And, unlike most acts of charity, my son, it would not only be good for your soul but would bring money into your pocket rather than having it flow out."

"And not just money," Colonel Quigley added. "You know the hospital makes its own electricity. As part of the bargain, we would have the hospital make electricity for this farm as well."