But Alderford never said an untoward word. He set coins- U.S. coins-on the table and went on his way. Nellie let out a quiet sigh of relief. She'd got by with it. But if more Confederates came to visit, could she keep on getting by with it? One more thing to worry about, she thought, as if she didn't have enough already.

Lucien Galtier reached out and pressed the starter button on the dashboard of his Chevrolet. He'd bought the automobile in large measure because it had a Frenchman's name on it; a Ford would have been easier to come by.

The engine coughed before coming to noisy life. The motorcar shuddered under him, then settled into a steady vibration different even from the motion of a railroad car, the closest comparison he could find.

His feet were still clumsy on gas and clutch and brake. Charles and Georges had taken to driving more readily than he, which infuriated him. "I will learn to do this, and to do it well," he muttered. He did not talk to the automobile, as he had to the horse. He was talking only to himself. He knew it, and felt the lack.

He stalled the motorcar the first time he tried to shift from neutral up into low gear. Naturally, Georges had taken the moment before to come out of the barn. As naturally, Lucien's younger son laughed at his father's fumbles, and did not even try to keep that laughter to himself. Galtier called the automobile several names he would not have used on the horse even in the worst of moods. Then, still wishing he had not bought the machine, he started it once more and succeeded in driving away.

As he drew near Riviere-du-Loup, he came up behind a horse-drawn wagon-one very much like that which he had driven himself up till a few weeks before. The cursed thing crawled along at a snail's pace. Galtier squeezed the horn bulb again and again. The stupid farmer sitting up there like a cowflop might have been deaf. He refused either to speed up or to pull over.

At last, seizing an opportunity, Lucien shot around him. "Mau-vaise calisse!" he shouted, and eked out the malediction with gestures. The other farmer smiled a smile that, to Galtier, proved his feeblemindedness. "Some people have no consideration," Galtier fumed. "None whatsoever." He never once thought how he had behaved when driving a wagon rather than a motorcar.

Traffic in Riviere-du-Loup was far heavier than he recalled from the days before the war. Automobiles had been rare then, with most people traveling by wagon or carriage or on horseback. Now everyone seemed to have a motorcar, and to drive it with a Gallic disdain for consequences that matched Galtier's own. He cursed. He shouted. He waved his arms. He blew his horn, and blew it and blew it. He fit right in.

Finding a parking space was another adventure, one made worse because the streets of Riviere-du-Loup had not been designed with the automobile in mind. A good many motorcars were parked with two wheels in the road, the other two up on the sidewalks-sidewalks were none too wide, either. At last, Lu-cien imitated that example.

When he got out, money jingled in his pockets. Some of the coins were from the USA, a few from the Canada of before the war, and some from the Republic of Quebec. As they were all minted to the same standard, merchants took one lot as readily as another. A newsboy was hawking papers on a street corner. Galtier gave him a couple of pennies-one, a U.S. coin, said ONE CENT on the reverse; the other, an issue of Quebec, featured the fleur-de-lys and announced its value as UN sou-and took a newspaper.

FRANCE IN CHAOS! shouted the headline. He read the accompanying story as he walked back to the automobile. Police and soldiers had turned machine guns on rioters in Paris furious about the worthless currency and about the country's forced subservience to the German Empire.

The reporter didn't seem to know what tone to take. Germany was the USA's ally, and so was also the ally of the Republic of Quebec. But the Quebecois sprang from French stock, and nothing would ever change that. The ambiguity made the writer take almost no tone at all, but set forth what he'd learned from the cable as baldly as if it were going down in a police blotter.

Galtier sighed. He didn't know how to feel about France's troubles, either. He wished she were not having such troubles. But if the only way for her not to have troubles was for her to have won the war… Galtier shook his head. "Too high a price to pay," he murmured.

He would not have said that during the war. He shrugged. He'd had the same thought many times before, in many different contexts. The world had changed, too. Taken all together, the changes pleased him. He would not have said that during the war, either.

When he knocked on the door to the house where Nicole and Leonard O'Doull lived, his daughter answered almost at once. Tagging along behind her was little Lucien. Staring gravely up at Galtier, he asked, "Candy?"

"No, no candy today, I regret," Galtier answered.

His grandson clouded up and got ready to cry. "You know you aren't supposed to do that," Nicole said, and, for a wonder, little Lucien didn't. Nicole smiled at Galtier. "And what brings you here today, Papa?"

"Nothing much," he said grandly. "I was just out for a drive in my Chevrolet, and I thought I would stop in." Was that how a gentleman of leisure should sound? He didn't know. He'd never met a gentleman of leisure.

"Ah," Nicole said. "You have the motorcar here, then?"

"Here in Riviere-du-Loup, yes. Here in my pocket"-Galtier peered into it, as if to make sure-"here in my pocket, no."

Nicole wrinkled her nose. "It certainly isn't hard to see sometimes where Georges comes by it," she remarked.

"Comes by what?" Galtier demanded. He was perhaps a sixteenth part as annoyed as he pretended to be.

His daughter knew as much. "Will you let me drive your new motorcar, Papa?" she asked.

"What's this?" Now Galtier's surprise was genuine. "How is it that you, a girl, a woman"-he added that last with the air of a man granting a great concession-"can drive a motorcar?"

"Leonard showed me, Papa," Nicole answered, very much a woman and very much a woman of the new century. "It isn't very hard. I've driven our Ford any number of times. It's a handy thing to know, don't you think?"

"What if you have a puncture, and your husband is not there?" Lucien asked.

"I fix it," she answered calmly. "I've done it once. It's a dirty job, and not an easy job, but I know I can do it again."

"Do you?" Galtier muttered. Nicole hadn't yet mentioned her driving to Marie or to Denise. He knew that for a fact. If she had, his wife and his next eldest daughter would have been nagging him to learn to drive, too. With Charles and Georges always wanting to go courting or just gallivanting around in the machine, where would he ever find time to use it himself if his womenfolk were taking it, too?

"Yes, I do." Nicole answered the question he hadn't quite aimed at her, and answered it with arrogant confidence a man might have envied. "And so, may I drive your automobile?"

Thus directly confronted, Lucien found no choice but to yield. "Very well," he said, "but I will thank you to be careful of the delicate machine-and of your delicate father as well."

Nicole laughed, for all the world as if he'd been joking. She reached down and took little Lucien's hand; evidently, she was not afraid to trust his life to what she knew behind the steering wheel. Galtier's heart had not pounded so since the war crossed the St. Lawrence. Nonetheless, he led her to his mechanical pride and joy.

She slid into the driver's seat, but then stopped in consternation. "Everything is different, Papa!'" she exclaimed. "On the Ford, the spark knob is on the left side of the steering column, the throttle on the right. I have a lever on the floor to my left for the emergency brake and clutch release and the pedals on the floor seem different from these, too. On the Ford, they are the high- and low-speed clutch, the reverse pedal, and the foot brake."