CHAPTER IITHE 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 Pariswhere, 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 allyou 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 allsinging 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 grewbigger 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 herarms, 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 acrossgardens. 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 gillyflowerswhen 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 toprotect 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.