A LITTLE MAID OF PICARDY

BOOKS BY AMY E. BLANCHARD

REVOLUTIONARY SERIES

A GIRL OF ’76. A Story of the Early Period of the
War for Independence. 331 pages.

A REVOLUTIONARY MAID. A Story of the Middle
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Latter Period of the War for Independence. 312 pages.

Price, $1.50 net each.

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ELIZABETH, BETSY AND BESS. A Story. 284
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THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS OF BRIGHTWOOD. A
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IN CAMP WITH THE MUSKODAY CAMP FIRE
GIRLS. A Story of Summer Camp Fires by Cabin
and Lake. 310 pages.

A GIRL SCOUT OF RED ROSE TROOP. A Story
for Girl Scouts. 320 pages.

A LITTLE MAID OF PICARDY. Story of a Little
Refugee in France. 338 pages.

Each illustrated by Colored Frontispiece and with Colored Jacket.

Cloth Bound. Price, $1.35 net each.

Also Books in the AMERICAN GIRL SERIES.

A Little Maid of
Picardy

By
AMY E. BLANCHARD

ILLUSTRATED BY
FRANK T. MERRILL

W. A. WILDE COMPANY
BOSTON CHICAGO

Copyrighted, 1919,
By W. A. Wilde Company
All rights reserved

A Little Maid of Picardy

Contents

A Little Maid of Picardy

CHAPTER I
A GARDEN GROWS

“IL y a dans ce village

Une enfant a l’œil noir.

C’est Jeanne au frais visage;

Elle chant matin et soir.

Elle est rieuse et belle,

Et dans nos environs

Tout le monde l’appelle

La fillette au chansons.

Tra la la—”

sang Lucie as she sat on a stone bench under a sheltering cherry tree. The “tra la la” suddenly ceased at a stir of the branches on the other side. Lucie glanced up with a twinkle in her eyes and changed the song to “Way down upon the Swanee river.”

“Lucie, Lucie, what are those funny words you sing?” called some one from over the wall.

“Ma foi, what ignorance!” returned Lucie with an uplift of her eyebrows. “As if one could not tell. Did you never hear ‘the Old Folks at Home’?”

“What is this ‘Ole folk zat ome?’ I do not know,” returned the voice.

Lucie laughed. “Come over, come over, Annette, and I will teach it to you. It will be droll to hear you sing it.”

Annette climbed nimbly to the top of the stone wall, and presently dropped to her feet, avoiding bushes and vines in order to make her way to where Lucie was sitting. “It is droll enough to hear you sing it,” she remarked. “It is in English of course.”

“American English; a song my mother often sings and which every one knows over there in the United States.”

“And you will teach it to me, this song? I shall like to sing it for grandfather. How he will be amused when he hears it.”

“Then repeat after me.”

This Annette essayed to do, but her efforts brought such peals of laughter from Lucie that she stopped with a pout. “How you are a silly one,” exclaimed she. “Me, I am all French. Can I then be expected to know English? If you will perhaps write the words for me I may then be able to say them, but when you speak so fast and run the words together at such a rate I cannot follow you.” She produced a piece of paper and a stub of pencil. Lucie carefully wrote out the first line, handed the paper back to Annette and waited with a gleeful smile.

“Vay don oopon ze Svanay reebair,” began Annette reading slowly. Then down fluttered the paper. “I cannot,” she cried. “This English is a monster! a Turkey! a pig! a thing impossible. I do not see how you can understand or speak it.”

“I speak it as well as I do French,” returned Lucie proudly. “Mamma wishes that I shall, for one day, behold! we go to her home to that same United States, then before my relations I shall not feel ashamed. I should consider myself a silly one if I could not understand them nor they me.”

“For me then there will arise no occasion for feeling shame, and therefore there is no need to learn this tongue, for I have no relatives in that country,” returned Annette complacently. “Would you not, Lucie, prefer to be all French. Is it not a sorrow to you that you are part English?”

“No, no,” Lucie shook her head. “I am not English, and I am very proud of my American blood and that I have American aunts and uncles. As for my mother, she tells me that she became French when she married a Frenchman, so this is now her country as well as my father’s and mine. I adore my France where I was born and where I hope I may die when my hour comes. It is the land of my father, my mother, my dear old grandfather. No, you cannot say I am English, Annette.”

This outbreak entirely satisfied Annette, who quite willingly changed the subject when her friend proposed that they should go further into the garden to see a certain rose now blooming gloriously. “Is it not magnificent?” Lucie asked as they stopped before the bush.

Annette viewed it with admiration. “It is truly,” she acknowledged, “more beautiful than my grandfather’s. Now he will be envious, that poor grandfather, for ours has not half the number of blooms.”

“They are very droll, those two old ones, your grandfather and mine,” remarked Lucie. “To hear them argue over a bed of cabbages one would think them the most important things in the world. They are never so happy as when they are discussing the merits of their gardens. For my part I cannot see that one is better than the other. They grow; there is enough and more than enough for our use, so what does it matter? Here comes Paulette now to gather vegetables. Shall we help her to pick the peas, Annette?”

“And shell them afterward?”

“Why yes, if you will.”

Paulette, rugged of feature, brown of skin, sharp-eyed and capable, came forward with a basket on her arm. She wore a stuff skirt, a huge apron, a stout sacque and a little cap. Her face was rather grave and stern until she smiled, then her expression showed a kindly humor.

“May we help you gather the peas, Paulette?” asked Lucie, balancing herself on one foot.

Paulette scanned the vines. “Yes, if you will be careful to pick only the well-filled pods. One may not take those not fully matured. Guard well against that.”

“We know and we will be careful,” returned Lucie and forthwith the three set to work, the girls using their aprons to hold the gathered pods, Paulette giving them once in a while a sharp eye to see that they performed their task properly.

At last when peas, carrots, onions, lettuce had been gathered Paulette carried them into the house and the little girls sat down again on the stone bench to shell the peas. Paulette meantime bustled in and out to bring water, to wash the lettuce and swing it around and around in a wire basket that it might be freed from all moisture, to scrape the little potatoes, to pick over the herbs for the ragout. The warm air was scented with odors from the garden, the rose-bushes, the clambering vines and mellowing fruit. The two girls chattered away like magpies about pleasant, homely things: their lessons, their pets, the growing garden, the good curé, the kind nuns. Outside the white wall the noises from the long street seemed only sociable sounds. Carts rattled along, children called to one another, men tramped home from the factories to their midday meal, stopping their whistling or singing to greet some friend. All this made a pleasant accompaniment to the drone of bees, and the drowsy crooning of hens in the chicken yard. There were homely, suggestive sounds, too, from the kitchens.

The two little girls, Lucie Du Bois and Annette Le Brun, were great friends, as might be surmised since they were next door neighbors. Lucie, her father and mother, her grandfather, Paulette, their maid and her son Jean, occupied a comfortable, square house whose red-tiled roof could be seen when winter stripped the leaves from the trees, but which in summer was almost hidden by green. A white stucco wall separated the garden from that of the Le Bruns, but the wall was not an impassable barrier, for the two girls, by means of a ladder, or, when the ladder was lacking, by means of overhanging branches, were able to climb back and forth.

Dark-haired, brown-eyed Annette lived with her grandparents. She was a bright, ardent little soul, adoring her best friend, Lucie, who excelled her in imagination and sometimes surprised her by her vivid way of telling things. Lucie, too, had dark eyes like her father’s, but her hair was a soft golden brown like her mother’s. She was about fourteen, Annette a year older. While the latter had legends of the saints at her tongue’s end, Lucie had far wider information concerning more modern tales. She never tired of hearing from her mother stories of the Indians and of her pioneer forefathers. These stories she would retell to Annette, who listened wide-eyed. Moreover there was a small collection of her mother’s girlhood books which Lucie was permitted to have and from which she gained a knowledge not only of her mother’s native tongue, but of things American. Therefore to Annette she was a very superior person whose companionship she greatly enjoyed, and preferred to that of any other girl she knew.

The big factory with the tall chimney over to the west belonged to the Du Boises; that on the other side of the town to the Le Bruns. Grandfather Du Bois had retired from active business, but still made a daily visit to the rooms where clattering machines whizzed and whirled all day long. He liked to talk over affairs with his son who had taken his place in the business. Monsieur Le Brun still remained head of his firm, having no son to succeed him, though he often spoke of the day when Annette should marry and a petit fils should relieve him of his cares.

The task of shelling the peas was far from being a disagreeable one, for while their fingers split the fresh pods and raked the pale green globes from them, the two girls chattered incessantly and at last began the subject which they often discussed but never failed to enjoy. This time it was Annette who began by asking: “Have you really made up your mind which saint you prefer?”

“For me it is Saint Elizabeth of Hungary or Saint Ursula,” replied Lucie. “I adore that story of the loaves of bread turned into roses, and I also like Saint Ursula for she was of Brittany. It must have been wonderful to see her leading her eleven thousand virgins.”

“You would like to do that sort of thing, wouldn’t you, my Lucie? Have you no saint of your own country that you would like above all others?”

“My own country? France is my country.”

“I mean that country of the United States that you are always talking about.”

“How you are foolish,” returned Lucie crossly. “Why do you try to separate me from the land of my birth? I think you are very unkind. I don’t believe you want to acknowledge me as a compatriot.”

Annette looked a trifle abashed. She had really meant only to tease. “Well,” she began to hunt around for an excuse, “you are continually telling me of its wonders, and you speak of the characters in those story books as if you were intimately acquainted with them, that Jo and her sisters in that ‘Leetle Veemen’ you so like.”

“Of course I am intimately acquainted with them, for I have read that book many times. One may have friends anywhere, but that does not mean one must adopt their countries.”

This argument proved Lucie’s case and Annette changed the subject back again to the favorite saints. “If you will have a sweet saint of France there is Saint Genevieve,” she remarked. “It was she whose prayers delivered Paris from Attila the Hun, you remember.”

“Yes, she is very nice,” Lucie acknowledged somewhat flippantly, not being in a mood to accept any suggestion, “but you see every one knows about her. I should like to have as my favorite some one more uncommon. I think I shall ask Sister Marie Ottilia to find me a saint that I can feel very near to because she has not too many followers.” She set the subject aside with an air of finality, and Annette felt that this time she had really gone too far in her desire to tease.

The two were silent till at last Lucie said: “There, Annette, these are the last. I will take them in. The pods Paulette can give to the animals. See, already my pigeons are coming for a share of the peas. I can give them only a few, for Paulette will scold if she thinks I am wasting them. She has a sharp eye for food, that Paulette. Wait for me, Annette, I will bring a book.”

Emboldened by this overture of peace Annette ventured to say: “Not ‘Leetle Veemen.’ I cannot understand that.”

Lucie paused with the brown basin of peas in her hand and threw a laughing glance over her shoulder. “Perhaps you would better like something of Dickens,” she said.

“O, that Deekens! He is an impossible!” cried Annette, throwing out her hands with a gesture of rejection. “Not that, I beg of you.” Lucie made no reply but continued on her way to the kitchen. She was gone some time but at last returned with a green book under arm. She showed the title on the back to Annette with a gleeful laugh.

“Ma foi but you are a tease,” cried Annette. “I will not remain. I will go home at once.” She jumped up in order to carry out her decision.

Lucie forced her back upon the seat. “And why am I not to tease as well as you? To read does not hurt one’s feelings, but to be denied one’s country does,” she said.

“Did I really hurt your feelings?” Annette asked contritely.

“Would it not hurt your feelings if one declared you did not belong to your native country, to France?”

“It would most surely,” Annette was obliged to confess, “but I was only teasing my Lucie. As for this Deekens, he bewilders, he confuses me. Is it because you are angry with me and wish me to go that you bring this so impossible book?”

“But this you know could not be,” Lucie assured her. “Wait till I have told you. I asked my mother to suggest something from her books which would be interesting to both you and me and she gave me this which she tells me is quite unlike any of the others of this Dickens. It is called ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ and is about the French Revolution. The heroine has my own name of Lucie. My mother says the story is exciting beyond words.”

“Voila une autre chose,” returned Annette, accepting the situation without further protest. “Let us then proceed.”

Usually Lucie’s methods of translation were very free, to say the least. Her way was to skim over a page as rapidly as possible, then relate the contents in her own words. Anything that appeared uninteresting she skipped, consequently the abridged tale which Annette heard was shorn of many of its features and she was frequently bewildered in trying to keep track of the plot and the characters. If she complained of this Lucie would laboriously try to translate literally, which was more bewildering still. Both girls, however, enjoyed such translations as Lucie took pains to make clear. The usual manner would run something like this, Lucie turning over the leaves rapidly:

“It was in the year 1775. There was a man in a coach who had a message brought to him. He was to meet a young lady at Dover.”

“A young man was this?” Annette queried.

“No, an old. He was a banker or something. He had to tell the young lady that her father was living.”

“Didn’t she want him to be living?”

“That I do not know yet, but anyway she thought him dead. He had been in prison for eighteen years.”

“Ma foi, Lucie, for what was he imprisoned? He must have been a very bad man. Eighteen years! A lifetime.”

“It doesn’t say why he was imprisoned. He may not have been a wicked person. Anyway they went to see him. He was in a tower making shoes.”

“Shoes? My Lucie, why should he make shoes?”

“O, just to pass away the time.”

“But so curious is this. It would not entertain me to spend my time making shoes.”

“It might if you wanted to pass away the time and could find nothing else to do. I should think it rather interesting myself.”

“For me I should prefer something else; dresses, maybe, or hats. I should not mind at all making hats.”

“Men’s hats or ladies’ hats? Straw hats or what?”

“O, not men’s hats of course, beautiful hats upon which one could use ribbons and lace flowers.”

“Where could you get all those things if you were in prison?”

“I haven’t an idea. I suppose in the same manner that the man got leather for the shoes. Does it tell?”

“Not yet. Maybe it will. We shall see.” So the tale went on till the midday meal was ready and a voice from the other side of the wall called: “Annette, Annette, le dejeuner est servi.” Then over the wall climbed Annette, leaving the fortunes of Lucie Manette, Evremonde and Sidney Carton to be followed another day.

CHAPTER II
THE FIRST BREAK

“MOUSSE! Mousse! Where is Mousse?” Lucie began calling her pet cat as she ran from kitchen to dining-room to library. At the door of the last named room she stopped short to look around upon the little group gathered there. “Such serious faces, all of you,” she exclaimed. “What is it? Mamma, papa, grandfather, you look as if you had lost your last friends.” She perched upon her grandfather’s knee and began pulling his moustache so as to make the corners of his mouth turn up. “Smile, cher grandpère,” she said.

He took her hands gently away and held them in his. “It is a time to be serious, my child,” he said. “One cannot smile when there is war to face. I who remember 1870 cannot smile now.”

“War? Not for us, not France. What has she done?” Lucie looked around incredulously.

“She has done nothing but be her true self,” said her grandfather shaking his head sadly.

“But it is not near, this war. It will not touch us here in our home.”

“Alas, it is very near. The Germans have invaded Belgium, and are marching on to Paris where, they boast, they will eat their Christmas dinner.”

“Oh but,” Lucie began, looking toward her father, whose face wore a stern, set look. “Papa,” she cried springing up and throwing herself into his arms, “you are going! It is this that makes you all look so. You are going to the war, to be a soldier. O, papa!”

He stroked her hair softly. “Yes, little one, I am going as all good Frenchmen will go. We are not ready, we of France, but we shall do our best. For this hour Germany has been preparing for forty years. She is the one country which desires and is ready for war. The rest of us have been taken unawares but—” He shrugged his shoulders.

“And is it soon, at once, that you must go?” Lucie asked tremulously.

“At once. There is no time to lose. You must be brave, little one, and cheer mamma. You are a daughter of France, remember, and her women do not quail before danger. You will remember that and be brave always, always, no matter what comes?” He took her face between his hands and kissed her on each cheek.

Lucie winked back the tears and, though her voice quavered, she answered: “I will be brave, always, always, papa. I will remember.”

“That is my dear daughter. Try to help all you can. There will be much to be done and you must do your part.”

Lucie looked across the room. “But grandfather is not going,” she said.

He lifted his head with a sudden, proud gesture. “Not yet, my pigeon, but if I am called I shall answer in spite of that old wound the Prussians gave me nearly fifty years ago.”

“And Jean, does Paulette’s Jean go?” Lucie continued her questions.

“Oh, yes, Jean must go,” her father told her. “He has enlisted already in my company.”

“Poor Paulette!” Lucie looked grave. She realized that it was indeed no time to make merry.

And in the days which followed she realized this still more. Her mother went about with a faraway look in her eyes. Paulette was grimmer and more silent. Grandfather Du Bois talked much with his neighbor, Mons. Le Brun, of that other war in which both had taken part. Lucie caught such sentences as: “They shall not pass. Never again shall it be, never, never,” spoken fiercely. Then there would be long silences as the two old men sat under the trees in the peaceful garden.

It was with contradictory emotions that the little girl saw her father march away with Jean, Pierre, Louis and François, youths of the town whom she had always known. They were all singing the Marseillaise. Lucie was thrilled as she heard them. Her grandfather and Mons. Le Brun stood stiffly saluting the flag as it passed. Madame Du Bois made a sweeping curtsy. Paulette followed her example, and, in her turn so did Lucie. Her heart beat high as she saw her father in his captain’s uniform leading his men. There were many others on the street waving handkerchiefs and crying “Au revoir.” Old men and boys were shouting “Vive la France!” or “Brave garçons!” As the rat-a-tat of the drums and the singing died away, and the floating flag became a mere speck, Lucie felt that she could not keep back her tears. She glanced at her mother, on whose face was a strange, exalted look. Lucie grasped her mother’s hand. It was as cold as ice, but she held Lucie’s tightly and smiled down at her. A few of the women were weeping though they continued to cheer mechanically as the tears coursed down their cheeks. Madame Du Bois’s eyes were tearless, and Lucie, who felt the moisture must overflow in her own eyes, choked back the lump in her throat and smiled into the face above her.

“They will come back victorious,” exclaimed her grandfather bravely.

“If they come back at all,” remarked Paulette dejectedly.

Thereupon the lump in Lucie’s throat grew bigger and forced from her eyes the tears which she had been striving to keep back.

She broke from her mother, rushed into the house and up, up into the farthest corner of the attic where she could have out her cry without being seen. Her father! Her beloved father gone, gone! She might never see him again on earth. She could not bear to think of it! In the excitement of the past few days, in the glamour of beholding uniforms, hearing drums beating and seeing flags flying she had scarcely realized that he was going into dangers, but now that part was done with, that exciting part which had buoyed her up, and ahead were only days of waiting and of anxiety.

The sobs grew less and less, however, as she remembered her promise to be brave. She repeated it over and over again: “I will be brave, always, always. I will, papa.” She wiped her eyes and gazed seriously out of the small window by which she sat. The pigeons were strutting over the red-tiled roof, making their queer cooing sounds. Down in the garden, walking back and forth, back and forth, she saw her grandfather slowly pacing.

Presently something soft and furry rubbed against her knee. “You, Mousse!” she cried. “You have searched me out. What a cat indeed! How did you know where to find me?” She gathered the little purring creature into her arms, gently stroked his head till he settled down in her lap; then she sat there very still for some time, thinking, thinking, until looking down into the garden she saw Paulette come out with two buckets and go toward the well.

“The poor Paulette,” exclaimed Lucie, “she will now have to do Jean’s work since he is no longer here. Behold grandfather! he has taken a bucket. He is helping her. What a thing indeed! I, too, should help; it is what I promised papa I would do. I had forgotten all that might happen with Jean gone, that Paulette would have double work unless we others should do some of it. Come, Mousse, we must go down.”

She carried the small creature with her down to the garden, calling as she went: “What can I do? What can I do? Paulette, is there nothing I can do to help?”

“To be sure there is something,” replied Paulette, setting down her bucket, a smile relaxing the gravity of her face. “You can feed the fowls.”

“Truly I can,” replied Lucie. “I know where their food is. Come with me to feed the fowls,” she said to her grandfather who was setting down the second bucket.

“And do you think I have nothing better to do than help you feed the fowls?” he asked, smiling at her indulgently.

“No doubt you have, but it will not take long, and it is so much more entertaining when one has a companion to whom one can say: ‘Is not the speckled hen greedy?’ or, ‘What a coward is the red rooster!’”

“To-day then it is allowed that you make those remarks to me, but after this—” He shook his head.

“After this why can you not?”

“Because, my child, I take my son’s place at the factory, as must many an old man do.”

Lucie looked thoughtfully across at the neighboring garden. “Mons. Le Brun will not have to change his habits, but that other grandfather of Annette’s must do so, I suppose, for her uncles and cousins will go to the war, no doubt.”

Her grandfather drew a quick sigh. “Yes, all of us can do our part in one way or another. Well, in my case it is not as if I were without experience. Come, let us go to those fowls, and then something else. One must not be an idler these days.”

The two went to the little shed at the back of the garden where they found the grain to scatter for the waiting fowls. The pigeons, too must have their share. These were so tame that they perched on Lucie’s shoulder, ate from her hands, sat upon her arm when she held it out. All the time she chattered away, sometimes to her grandfather, sometimes to the creatures about her.

The air was sweet and fresh coming from across gardens. Even the smoking factories could not overcome the odors of blossoming plants, while the clatter of machinery was less in evidence than the laughter of children, the rippling talk of young girls, the shouts of boys. This evening, however, there was less of laughter than usual. From so many of the houses had gone forth a father, a son, a brother, a husband to the war, and anxious foreboding filled the hearts of the older people.

Lucie carried the empty basin into the house, leaving her grandfather with head thoughtfully bent and hands behind him to resume his pacing of the garden walk. Madame Du Bois was busy in the house taking upon herself some of those duties which were generally Paulette’s.

“But, mamma,” said Lucie, seeing her in the dining-room, “I can set the table.”

“So you can to-morrow,” said her mother, “but now I have done it, and there is nothing further to add to it.”

Lucie viewed it critically. “I can gather some fresh flowers,” she offered.

Her mother made no answer.

Lucie looked over her shoulder as she went out. “One must have courage, mamma, so I will gather the very gayest and brightest blossoms to cheer us up.”

She continued her way into the garden and was gravely contemplating roses and gillyflowers when she heard some one whistling a joyous air. For a moment she thought it was Jean, then she remembered that there was no more a Jean to be whistling and singing about the premises. She discovered, too, that the sound came from the other side of the wall. It was not Annette who was there. Annette never whistled. Presently the whistling ceased. Lucie began to arrange her bouquet, but before it was half completed she was aware of a pair of eyes fixed upon her, and looking up she saw above the wall a merry face smiling down at her.

“Victor!” she cried. “Where did you come from?”

“Tell me first,” returned the lad, “where is my cousin Annette.”

“That I do not know. Isn’t she in the house?”

“Would I be seeking her in the garden if she were?” laughed Victor. “No, my dear Lucie, she is neither within nor without the mansion of the Le Bruns so far as I can ascertain. I have brought something for her, but since she is not here, and Madame the grandmother objects to this gift, I must take it back or bestow it elsewhere.”

“O, Victor, what is this gift to which Madame Le Brun objects?”

“La la, I have aroused your curiosity, have I?”

“Well, you see,” Lucie began bunching the flowers she held, “you see I am interested in a gift for Annette, who is my dearest friend.”

“My cousin Annette is to be congratulated, mademoiselle,” returned Victor with a twinkle in his eye. “Very well, then, give me a rose and I will show you the gift, a fine rose, mind.”

“Red or white?”

“Neither; one of those delicate pink ones like your cheeks.”

Lucie ignored the flattery, and held up a rose which Victor regarded critically. “Too full blown,” he declared. “It will fade before morning.”

“I will gather one from the bush, one between a rose and a bud.”

“As you yourself are.”

Lucie made a little face at him. “How you are silly, Victor. You speak as if to a young lady.”

“Well, you will be, give you time, and I may not be here then to make pretty speeches. I am but taking time by the forelock.”

Lucie paid no attention to the cryptic speech but gave a serious regard to the rosebush from which she should select the proper flower, at last deciding upon one of just the exact maturity to suit the fastidious taste of Victor. He nodded approvingly as he took it and stuck it in his buttonhole. “I shall wear it as an amulet,” he told her.

“Foolish boy,” replied Lucie disdainfully.

“Perhaps you think I shall need nothing to protect me from danger. I assure you I shall. Perhaps your rose may ward off German bullets.”

“Bullets?”

“Why not? A soldier must consider bullets.”

“A soldier?”

Victor nodded. “It seems that you are not very original, mademoiselle. You do nothing but repeat my words like a parrot.”

“But these surprises. You are too young. Surely, Victor, you are not thinking of going to the war.”

“And why not? I shall become eighteen next month. I am but waiting that day. I have had considerable military training. Aux armes, citoyens!” He sang in a fine clear voice. “Shall I not fly to the aid of our beloved France as well as another? I am no coward, I tell you, Lucie Du Bois down there among your flowers.”

“Of course not. No one would believe that, but you must admit that you are young.”

“So much the better. I decided at once that I should lose no time, therefore I have been making ready. To-day I came to make my adieux to my cousins and my friends here. In passing I will say that I also had in mind the gift for my young cousin, that gift which her grandmother will not permit her to accept. Madame Le Brun declares it shall not have house-room nor even out-of-house-room.”

“It must be a queer sort of gift.”

“Not so queer. Wait, I will show you. Stand where you are and you shall behold.” He scrambled down the other side of the wall while Lucie stood expectantly. Presently above the wall appeared first a pair of ears, then two bright eyes, then the entire head of a very alert and inquisitive little dog, which looked around interestedly.

“O, Victor,” exclaimed Lucie, “what a darling!”

“Speak, Pom Pom,” said Victor over the wall, and a quick sharp bark from Pom Pom replied.

Victor’s head again appeared above the vines. He took the little dog under his arm.

“And you are going to give Annette that adorable little dog,” said Lucie.

“I was going to give it to her, but now I am not permitted to do so.”

“Then shall you take it to camp as a mascot?”

“I thought of doing that, but I do not wish him killed nor left without a master. You see, he belonged to my sister who died two years ago. She charged me to see that he was always well cared for, and who can tell what would happen to him in a camp?”

“He is certainly a darling,” repeated Lucie, standing on tiptoe that her fingers might touch the cold nose of the little dog who licked her fingers daintily. “See, Victor, he makes friends with me at once.”

“Would you like to have him?” asked Victor suddenly.

“O, Victor, I would, I truly would.”

“Then he is yours.”

“O, but—”

“Your mother will permit?”

“I think so. I am sure she will.”

“Yet we would better ask.”

Paying no heed to the flowers she had dropped in her effort to reach the dog, Lucie turned to run back to her mother. “Mamma, Mamma,” she cried as she burst into the room, “that Victor is there with a dog, so darling a dog as you never saw, so affectionate, so intelligent, and this dog is mine if you give me permission to keep him.”

“But why you, my daughter?” asked her mother.

“Because, you see, it is this way. It is Victor Guerin, of course you know, Annette’s cousin who comes so often. Very well, he brings this dog to Annette. She is not at home, has gone who knows where, and her grandmother, who does not like dogs, refuses to allow Victor to leave this precious little creature.”

“But why does Victor wish to give it away?”

“O, I forgot to say that it is because next month he becomes eighteen and then he can enlist in the army.”

“That lad?”

“He is young, is he not? Still there are others as young and he is mad to go. This dog, you see, belonged to his sister who died, and he wants to place it where it will have good care.”

“I see. Very well, you may take it on one condition, that after the war you will give it again to Victor if he wishes it.”

“Yes, yes, mamma, I will.”

“But what of Mousse?”

“O, Mousse!” Lucie looked uncertain. “I will ask Victor to help me to make those two to become friends. On his part he can charge Pom Pom not to hurt Mousse and I will make Mousse understand. He may not at once, but he will in time. I will go now to bring Pom Pom to show you.”

She flew to the garden to see Victor astride the wall holding the little dog.

“Mamma consents, Victor,” cried Lucie as soon as she was within hearing, “but there is this condition: that if you want him when you return from the war I am to give him back to you.”

“That is good,” returned Victor. “I confess, Lucie, that I am very fond of the little creature and I shall go off with better heart for knowing he is in good hands.” He climbed down from the wall, lifted down Pom Pom and placed him in Lucie’s arm. “This is your new mistress. Pom Pom,” he said, “you must be a good dog and mind her.”

Pom Pom looked questioningly from one to the other, whining a little but accepting the situation, for he did not attempt to leave Lucie’s arms.

“Come with me,” begged Lucie, “and help me to make peace with Mousse. Pom Pom will not hurt him, you think?”

“Not if I tell him he must not. He is very obedient.”

Lucie looked a little troubled. “I wish I could say the same of Mousse, still he is most intelligent and I do not believe he will mind very much. He is really fonder of Paulette than of me, so I don’t believe he will be very jealous.” She looked down lovingly and stroked the dog’s soft head, Victor regarding them both soberly.

“Shall I bring your flowers?” asked Victor presently. “You have dropped them all.”

“O, yes, please do. I forgot all about them in thinking of Pom Pom,” responded Lucie.

He gathered up the scattered blossoms and followed her along the path to the house.

CHAPTER III
WE GO

IT was later in the day that Annette came flying in. “This dog, Lucie,” she cried, “this dog of Victor’s, where is he? I wish much to see him. Unlucky me not to be allowed to have him! Victor has told me, the good Victor, how clever is this little dog, that he will stand upon his hind legs when one bids him dance to a whistling, and that he will also sing to an accompaniment. Is it so, or is this just nonsense? He is very ready for a joke, this Victor.”

“Yes, he does those things,” Lucie assured her.

“The singing? It is hard to believe that.”

“If one may call it singing. It is not very melodious, though no doubt it is the best he can do.”

“We must teach him new tricks to surprise Victor when he comes back. I have never seen this Pom Pom, for you know he belonged to my cousin Marguerite who lived in Bordeaux which is too far away for one to visit, and Victor, though he has been here a number of times, has never brought the dog with him.”

“We will go to see him if you like. Victor thought I would best tie him for a day or two lest he try to find his way back to him, so he is there in the garden. I will have him on a leash and let him run a little. Come.”

Of course Annette went into raptures over the new pet, and was so regretful at being deprived of him that Lucie consoled her by saying she should have a share in him, although he must live with the Du Boises rather than with Le Bruns. This arrangement quite satisfied Annette who had felt herself defrauded of what naturally should have come to her. So between them it certainly was not for lack of petting and feeding that Pom Pom could feel himself abandoned, and, as a matter of fact, in a few days he was entirely at home, ready to show off his tricks and to attach himself devotedly to Lucie. To be sure he would sometimes stand at the gate looking wistfully up and down the street, regarding Lucie with questioning eyes when she came to him.

But no more did he or his mistress see Victor Guerin before bewildering and evil days fell upon the town. First came troops marching through, a thing of almost daily occurrence and a signal for the two little girls to run out with flowers, fruit, or cakes of chocolate to give to the soldiers, who would stick the flowers on the ends of their bayonets and go off nibbling chocolate between cheers or snatches of the Marseillaise.

It had become a thing of every day to see Grandfather Du Bois and Grandfather Le Brun start off together to their factories, there to remain all day. It was becoming customary, too, to behold women doing men’s work and for the two little girls to apply themselves to duties they had never known before. Still they were happy. No one much believed in a protracted war. Those who shook their heads in doubt were laughed at and called croaking ravens.

But one day came a message which compelled Madame Du Bois, pale and shaken, to leave Lucie in charge of her grandfather and Paulette, for the word was that Captain Du Bois was severely wounded and his wife decided that nothing must keep her from going to him.

Lucie clung to her mother, choking back sobs and begging that she might go, too. “Take me, mother. Please take me,” she cried, “I will be brave and I can help, indeed I can.”

“But, dear child, it is not possible,” Madame Du Bois tried to explain. “I do not know even if I may see him. I may not be allowed that privilege. I shall keep as near him as I can and shall return if he recovers,” she gave a quick sigh. “If it be that I must come back without him you must have the courage to face the worst, and bear in mind that it will be a hero for whom we mourn. Now, dear daughter, be as helpful here as you can. Give as little trouble as possible. When we keep busy there is less time for grieving. You must try to keep grandpère and Paulette in good heart.”

These words encouraged Lucie to show a braver spirit. She no longer wept, but stood looking very grave and thoughtful. “You will write, mamma, very soon,” she said.

“Yes, yes, as soon as I can. As soon as it is possible I will send some sort of message. It may be that I shall have difficulty in finding a proper place to stay, but at the hospital I shall try to make myself so useful that they will wish me to stay.”

So away she went, leaving Lucie waving farewells and trying to smile in spite of tearful eyes. She remembered that she must not be a coward and that she must keep busy so as to have no time for grieving.

“Paulette, Paulette,” she called as she reëntered the house. The old servant had disappeared in order to hide her own emotions.

“Paulette, give me something to do, something very hard that will make it necessary for me to keep my whole mind on it. I must have something to do. It is so hard this parting.” She was biting her lip and giving gasps between words.

“To be sure it is hard,” returned Paulette turning away her head. “Do I not know, I, a mother?”

“It is not only that mamma goes, that alone would be a hard thing to bear. She has never left me before, but papa, wounded, who knows how badly, and if ever—if ever—” She broke down and was gathered up into Paulette’s arms to sob out her sorrow on the good woman’s shoulder. She had kept back the tears as long as she could; now they must overflow.

“There, there, my lamb,” Paulette patted her soothingly. “The good God knows what is best. He does not willingly afflict. Yes, yes, weep all you wish; it is better so. One must weep at times or go mad. To-morrow, perhaps we shall have good news. We can be hopeful until we know. It is best to hope.”

In a few minutes Lucie dried her eyes and tried to smile. “We must think of grandfather, Paulette,” she said. “It is he one must first consider. He will be coming home from the factory very soon and there will be none but ourselves to greet him. He always went down that he might walk home with papa, you remember, then it was mamma who was always on hand to welcome him with a smile. I must train my mouth to smile no matter how I feel; it was what mamma did. Somehow I must always manage to have a smile for grandfather.”

“The poor old one,” sighed Paulette. “It is hard for him, his only son. I know; I know. Yes, chérie, you must meet him with a courage. Compose yourself. Go bathe the eyes, the flushed cheeks. Then we will make him one of those omelettes he best likes, and you may go to gather the eggs for it.”

“That is not a very difficult task but it is an interesting one,” answered Lucie, trying to be cheerful. “I will take Pom Pom to help. He adores to hunt for eggs. Poor Pom Pom, he has been so troubled to see me in distress, and has been doing his best to ask me what is the matter.”

“He is an animal most intelligent,” acknowledged Paulette. “Though for me I prefer Mousse.”

“Ah, that is because Mousse prefers you,” declared Lucie.

“He is the older friend,” Paulette remarked as Lucie went off to her room.

There were few traces of tears upon the little girl’s face when she returned, and she gave Paulette a smile as she went out with Pom Pom to hunt for eggs. “She is a marvel, that child,” murmured Paulette. “It is not only for me who adore her to see that, but it is the same with others, so brave, so cheerful. Hark, she sings of that Jeanne who is cheerful all the day, like herself. Ah, my little heart, sing while you can. There may come a day when you cannot.”

Determined not to look forward to trouble Lucie went on toward the hen house, Pom Pom leaping and barking as he accompanied her. This was a great game, for he could nose about in the hay and bark when he came upon a nest. It was not always the right nest, but that did not matter; it was just as amusing to him though it might not be to the hen who was in possession and who would fly madly off squawking a protest.

In due time a sufficient number of eggs filled the little basket Lucie carried. She might not participate in the preparation of the omelette, for that must be made at exactly the right moment and be served at once, but she could watch for her grandfather and be ready to greet him in the manner of her mother. “Well, grandfather, how has gone the day? Not badly, I hope. And you are not too tired. I will take your hat and stick. The meal is almost ready, so come in and rest.”

He looked down at her keenly. She knew what he was thinking about and opened her eyes very wide that he might see there were no tears in them.

He laid his hand gently on her head. “Dear daughter,” he murmured, “dear daughter.”

She took his hat and stick and put them in their place, then took her mother’s place at the table upon which Paulette was already setting the plates of soup. Neither of the two was able to eat very heartily, though they made a pretence of it and spoke at length of the excellence of Paulette’s omelette, and each tried to hearten the other by making foolish little jokes, but the meal was soon over, then although Lucie was ready to help Paulette with the dishes she would have none of it, but sent her off to keep her grandfather company.

It was not till almost dark that she found him sitting alone in the twilight, his hands upon the arms of the big chair by a window of his own room, his eyes fixed upon the eastern sky which reflected the afterglow in soft tints of rose and purple. Lucie seated herself upon his knee and his arms folded around her. Neither spoke but there was silent comfort in this nearness. At last the old man put the child gently from him. “I must see Antoine Le Brun,” he said. “Let us keep a great hope in our hearts, my child. To-morrow we may hear. God grant it to be good news.”

So he left her and Lucie went down to the kitchen to find Paulette telling her beads, with Mousse drowsing on the window sill beside her and Pom Pom curled up in a heap at her feet.

The next day came a hurried note from Madame Du Bois. She was making but slow progress owing to the hard conditions everywhere, but she was with friends, and she hoped to be able to continue her journey. They must not be alarmed if they did not hear at once. She would write as soon as opportunity afforded, and with this they were obliged to be satisfied.

A day or two of quiet when Lucie tried to get used to the loneliness and made a great effort to cheer up her grandfather. Between whiles there was Annette, to be sure, and there was also Pom Pom who was a ready pupil when the two girls attempted to teach him to bark when they cried: “Vive la France!” and to hold a small flag in his mouth waving it when they sang the Marseillaise. As for Mousse, he had reached the point of tolerating the newcomer, but not an inch further would he go. A proud disdain was the limit of what he felt he was called upon to express.

“It is as much as we can expect of him,” declared Lucie: “Cats are always more reserved than dogs, mamma says.”

Annette laughed. “How you are a funny one,” she said. “I could never analyze an animal in that way.”

“O, do not flatter me by imagining it was my thought,” replied Lucie. “It was mamma who said it. I think, Annette, that we must try to make a true poilu of Pom Pom. Perhaps in time we can persuade him to wear a sword and cap.”

“But who will make them for him?”

“Victor, perhaps, can make the sword and we can make the cap. That poor Victor will not have a very happy time in the trenches, I fear. Grandfather says the modern fighting is most bewildering.”

“So says my grandfather. How those two talk and argue and fight their old battles over.”

“Yes, when they are not talking about the factories. Over the top, Pom Pom,” cried Lucie as she vainly tried to make the little dog jump over a stick she held.

“He has no ambition to be a poilu,” declared Annette.

“But he must be, or we shall conscript him,” replied Lucie, at which speech of course Annette laughed.

“Do you think it possible that the Germans will come to this place?” asked Lucie after a silence during which Pom Pom was allowed his freedom.

“I do not know,” returned Annette, “but I am afraid sometimes.”

“And I, too, when I go to bed with no papa, no mamma in the house and wake up in the night feeling so alone.”

“I, too, have neither father nor mother.”

“But you have a grandmother which I have not.”

“Ah, but you have, over there in the United States.”

“Much good that does when there is an ocean between us.”

Their talk was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Lucie’s grandfather with a stern and set expression upon his face. At the same moment came an imperative call for Annette who scrambled over the wall hastily. “We go,” announced Mons. Du Bois, “at once.” “O, grandfather is it—is it papa?” quavered Lucie.

“No. The Germans are coming,” he replied curtly. “Go to your mother’s room; gather together such valuables as you know she may wish to secure, with any of your own, put them in a strong box and bring the box to me at once. There is no time to lose.”

Without waiting for further orders Lucie flew to her mother’s room, hurriedly gathered together pieces of jewelry, a couple of miniatures, a packet of letters, a few laces. To these she added her own little trinkets, crowding them all into a box which she brought down from the attic and which, when filled, she carried to her grandfather. She found him with Paulette in the garden. Both had spades with which they were digging up the earth as rapidly as possible. A large box of silver stood at one side, another of papers. Lucie set down the box she carried. Her grandfather glanced up but continued his spading as he gave further directions.

“Go now, and make a bundle of your clothing, no more than you can carry easily. Take only serviceable things, nothing flimsy.”

Back went Lucie, wasted no time in collecting shoes, stockings, a pair of each, a change of underwear, a couple of her stoutest frocks. She gazed for a moment wistfully at the daintier, prettier things, ribbons, sashes, the light summer hat, but forbore to put in anything more than she had been told to do. She then put on her newest frock and with the bundle under her arm went on downstairs, pausing to give but one farewell look at her room.

Her grandfather and Paulette were throwing on the last spadefuls of earth to cover up the spot where they had buried the valuables. Then they tramped it down. Paulette craftily heaped dead branches, stripped vines and odds and ends upon the place to make it look like a mere dump heap.

Lucie followed her grandfather to the house. As they passed through the kitchen she saw baskets filled with provisions. In the hall were satchels and bags. She watched her grandfather take a bunch of keys from his pocket, open a drawer in her father’s desk, and take therefrom a bundle of papers which he stowed away inside his coat.

Presently Paulette came in laden with baskets and bundles.

“You have too much there, Paulette,” said Mons. Du Bois.

“Better throw them or give them away than leave them for the boches,” she responded grimly.

“The chickens, Ninette the goat, Mousse, we cannot leave them,” cried Lucie in distress.

“We must,” declared Paulette doggedly. “Mousse will be able to fend for himself; he is a good mouser. The chickens,” she made a little dubious sound. “Le bon Dieu knows what will become of them.”

“All our pretty hens, the beautiful big cocks, and poor Ninette. Is it not possible that we can take them to some safe place?”

“Where?” asked Paulette sarcastically.

“I don’t know. O, I don’t know, but it seems so very dreadful.”

“They will not be here long,” replied Paulette gruesomely with a lift of her eyebrows.

Lucie did not dare continue the subject with all the possibilities it suggested, but she did say, “Pom Pom will go. He must. Nothing, no one, shall persuade me to leave him behind.”

Her grandfather looked down doubtfully at the little dog crouched at Lucie’s feet and gazing from one to the other with wistfully questioning eyes.

“He can walk, you know,” Lucie went on beseechingly. “He will be no trouble at all. I shall not need to carry him.”

“But to feed him.”

“He shall have a share of my food.”

“It is a long way, dear child, and we may want for food ourselves.”

“Where is it that we go?”

“To Paris if we can get there. It seems the best place, for there we shall find friends and work to do.”

“And we walk all that distance?”

“Part of the way at least. The trains are not running to this town, for many of the stations and much of the railroad is destroyed. Everything is in confusion.”

Lucie looked from the window to see coming down the street a procession of men, women, children, all sorts of vehicles, each laden with what could be carried.