CHAPTER VIMORE WAYS THAN ONE
THE rescue of the donkey was not quite so easy a task as it looked to be, but the two young people went at it heartily, Victor removing the heavier stones and timbers which blocked the way, and Lucie undertaking the smaller pieces. Master Donkey, whom Victor dubbed “Long Ears” for want of a better name, meanwhile looked on attentively, his ears moving in accord with his interest.
At last after an hour of rather exhausting labor, Victor exclaimed: “There, Lucie, I think I can climb over now and get at Long Ears. Donkeys are more sure-footed than horses and he can mount this pile of stuff and pick his way along without doubt. You might stand there and entice him with a handful of fresh grass.”
Lucie hunted around for such green stuff as she could collect from crevices and corners, while Victor led forth the prisoner.
“Now he must have some food and drink,” declared Victor. “He must stand in great need of it, poor fellow, and while he is partaking we will get that wheel.”
“Where is it?” asked Lucie.
Victor laughed. “Ah, that is the joke of it. I haven’t an idea where it is. I simply have faith to believe there is one; there must be. Who ever saw a town that did not contain at least one discarded cart wheel in the out-of-the-way corner of some stable-yard, or some such place? I shall prowl around until I find it; that is all. Do you want to prowl, too?”
Lucie declared herself eager to go with him on this quest, and they started out, making inquiries as they went along and at last coming upon the very odd corner that Victor had prophesied and where they found the cart wheel of their desire. It was rather a dubious looking affair, and its circumference was slightly less than those on the cart which Victor had secured, but he declared it would serve, and, with the help of an old man, managed to fasten it in place. Then they started off for the cow shed in high good humor.
“It does not go badly, this cart,” maintained Victor, “and as for our friend. Long Ears, he is none the worse for having served his time in prison.”
“Ah, do not speak of him in that way,” chided Lucie. “It is as if he had been a criminal.”
“He may be, who knows what evil deeds he may have done in his lifetime.”
But Lucie would none of this, and so theyargued and made merry upon that same road over which Lucie had traveled so wearily and despairingly a few hours before.
They found everything intact at the shed. Victor lifted baskets and bundles into the cart. “Now we will hunt for those eggs,” he said, “and we may as well take the hen, too. Some one can make use of her, and she will find it hard to scratch for a living here.”
“The eggs first. I am so very curious about those eggs, Victor. To think that after all I shall find them.”
“Shall I climb up, or do you want to see for yourself?”
“I would very much like to see for myself.”
“Then you shall do so. I will lift you up so you can see.”
Lucie looked rather doubtful at this. She was not sure that she would approve of this way to discovery. “Suppose you should let me fall, or at least hold me so unsteadily that I should let the eggs fall.”
Victor took her objections good-naturedly. “Then shall I climb up?”
“Ye-es, I suppose you will have to,” admitted Lucie.
“I have it,” cried Victor wanting to indulge her. “I can back the cart into the shed. There is plenty of room, and you can stand on that and be perfectly sure of your footing.”
“Oh, Victor, what a perfectly lovely idea,” cried Lucie. And in a few minutes the cart was standing beneath the shelf while Lucie climbed upon it. She laughed down at Victor. “It cannot be said that one’s footing is so very sure after all, for the cart is so rickety.”
“I think it will hold out. I will stand by Long Ears so he will not bolt at a critical moment.”
Feeling herself doubly safe Lucie turned to view the shelf and what was thereon. But the instant the head appeared above the top came again a wild flutter of wings, and a second squawking hen, disturbed in her retreat, flew in an agony of fright down from her nest and directly upon the back of the donkey. Victor made a grab at her as she went sailing by in a second flight, and Master Long Ears no longer feeling a detaining hand, kicked up his heels and went clattering out the door, bearing Lucie frantically trying to keep her feet and to get hold of the reins.
Fortunately the donkey once outside stopped at sight of green fields and began deliberately to crop the grass. Lucie collapsed in a fit of mirth upon the floor of the cart. Victor came running out, at first alarmed, and then ready to join in her laughter.
“It is not meant that I should get at those eggs,” declared Lucie. “You will have to get them, Victor.”
Monsieur was woundedMonsieur was wounded, night came, no one knew that he lay there, there were so many. The little dog knew and he went out to find him.
Monsieur was wounded, night came, no one knew that he lay there, there were so many. The little dog knew and he went out to find him.
Monsieur was wounded, night came, no one knew that he lay there, there were so many. The little dog knew and he went out to find him.
“But what a remarkable hen,” remarked Victor, “to lay two eggs in a day.”
Lucie went off again into another burst of laughter. “But, no,” she cried, “it was not the same hen. That other was brown; this is speckled. There are then two of them.”
“Ma foi!” cried Victor, “one does not have to go far for a joke even in these days.”
He returned to the shed, climbed up to the shelf, and presently reappeared with his pockets bulging. “My first foraging expedition,” he announced, “and here are the fruits, a half dozen eggs. We will commandeer these, a reserve for future use. We may be glad enough of them on our way. As for those hens they will have to fend for themselves, for there is no time to hunt them.” He deposited the eggs in one of the baskets, they climbed back again into the cart, undertook the task of persuading Long Ears to leave his pastures new, and finally they were on their way back to the town, arriving without mishap; then, with the consent of such authority as still existed, they set forth on the more precarious expedition to the next station.
Victor realized that time was short and it would be a close shave for him, for he must get back to camp at the proper hour. He had promised to return the borrowed cart and donkey, but in doing this, he resolved that he must let the future take care of itself. If hecould not return the borrowed articles in person, some one else could, and that was all there was to it.
They began the second stage of their journey quite confidently. Life again appeared worth living. Lucie sat by Victor’s side on the length of board which served as a seat. Paulette, perched on a similar board, was surrounded by baskets and bundles. She held firmly to her green cotton umbrella from which she had not parted in all this time. Sometimes she used it as a staff, sometimes it was laid across her shoulders on the top of a pack she carried, again it found a place on the top of a basket, but wherever it was Paulette evidently did not mean to lose sight of it. Having renewed his strength the donkey trotted along bravely enough, but the cart was less satisfactory. The wheels spread apart in a manner that threatened collapse at any moment, while the added fourth caused a queer joggle, a sort of limp, as it were.
“It may not be the most luxurious way of riding,” observed Victor, “but if we get there it will suffice.”
“Oh, Victor, do you think there is any danger of our not getting there?” inquired Lucie in alarm.
Victor glanced down at the wavering wheel. “It will be good luck if we do,” he replied,then seeing Lucie’s look of dismay he added: “but the donkey is very strong; we can pile the luggage on him, then you and Paulette can take turns in riding whatever portion of the road we still have to travel.”
There was some comfort in this, and perhaps it was as well that Lucie was warned, for at last after a threatening squeak, and a more than ordinarily violent wabble, off came the wheel and went careering down a gully at the side of the road. The cart gave a lurch, but Victor was quick to spring out, and ran to the head of Long Ears who seemed to have it in his mind either to bolt or to kick out with his hind legs. He decided upon a mild performance of the latter feat, but his heels could do little damage to the already decrepit cart, and under Victor’s management he soon calmed down and stood meekly while he was being unharnessed.
“Nobody hurt,” announced Victor cheerfully, “and we have not so very far to go. I think we can manage it. Come, Paulette, let us have those baskets. We can strap them on Long Ears pannier-wise, and we can make a pillion of the contents of those bundles, or at least of part. We can lay those on his back first and the straps which we can make of the reins will hold them on.”
Paulette was quite used to a peasant manner of traveling, and lent a hand skillfully, refusingabsolutely to be the first to ride, so to Lucie was given this honor.
Leaving the cart abandoned by the roadside they set off again, Lucie sitting easily upon her improvised saddle and rather enjoying the novelty. Victor walked by her side, declaring that one could not tell what tricks a donkey might suddenly develop and it was well that one should be on hand. At last Lucie declared that it was Paulette’s turn to ride, and though at first she protested violently, the old woman finally was persuaded that Lucie would be made uncomfortable if she continued to refuse, so she mounted Long Ears and in this way the little company at last arrived at their destination.
“Now,” said Victor, “the first thing is to discover Mons. Du Bois. If he be here I can leave you in safety.”
“And if he is not here?” said Lucie with some trepidation.
Victor looked troubled. “I am afraid I shall have to leave you in any case,” he answered slowly.
“O, Victor,” cried Lucie, “how can we get along without you?”
“Do you want him to be shot as a deserter?” asked Paulette severely. “He must get back to his regiment, and he has none too much time as it is.”
“Oh!” Lucie looked distressed. “I did not think, but—” She looked questioningly at Paulette.
“Do not distress yourself, my child,” returned Paulette imperturbably. “We shall get on. Monsieur, I beg that you will not embarrass yourself further. We are not the only women who must travel alone, and I have not a fear.”
“I trust to you, Paulette,” said Victor heartily. “You remain here. I shall not be gone long.”
Paulette dismounted from her steed and led him to one side where they would be less conspicuous. Lucie placed herself in a position to watch the street down which Victor had gone, and which led to the railway station. It was there that he intended first to go. He was as good as his word, for presently Lucie cried: “Here he comes, Paulette, and there is some one with him? If it should but be grandfather!”
Paulette looked searchingly at the two approaching figures. “But that it is not,” she declared. “That is neither the form nor the gait of Mons. Du Bois.”
Lucie drew a long sigh. “I did so hope,” she murmured.
In a few minutes Victor came up with a stout, middle-aged man. “This is Mons. Carriere,” he announced. “He will do all in hispower to locate Mons. Du Bois. As for me, I find I must take a train in a few minutes, but I am glad to leave you in safe hands.”
“How can I thank you for all you have done,” said Lucie, with a look of regret in her eyes. “I wish you need not go, Victor, but I should like less your having to be shot.”
Mons. Carriere looked inquiringly at Paulette.
“Mademoiselle means that monsieur must return to his regiment,” she explained. “If you will believe it, monsieur has spent his entire leave in transforming himself into an escort for us.”
“It is incredible,” exclaimed Mons. Carriere, turning to look at Victor.
“But, I assure you, monsieur, it was my duty,” declared Victor. “Are we not in this war as much to protect our women as our land?”
“Well said, bravegarçon,” cried Mons. Carriere, “but let me suggest, monsieur, that if you wish to make that train, your opportunity is very short.”
With that Victor grasped Lucie’s hands, kissed her upon either cheek, did the same to Paulette and was off at a run for the station. Lucie ran a short way the better to see the last of him, and stood where she could have a view of the train already to be heard approaching.
Paulette wiped her eyes with the back of herhand. “He is pure gold, that lad,” she said brokenly to Mons. Carriere. “Such courage, such cheerfulness, such invention! When I think that he may be fodder for cannon I cannot endure it.”
“It is such as he will save France,” returned Mons. Carriere. “We must be willing to let them go, to die, perhaps, for their country. Death is not the end.”
“You perhaps have no son to sacrifice,” returned Paulette.
“I have three,” replied he quietly, “and you, madame?”
“I have one and one only. He is apoilulike yonder lad.”
“But you do not weep that he gives himself for his country?”
“I weep in secret, but also I am proud that he was one of the first to go.”
The train was now moving out of the station. Paulette turned her back upon it, but Lucie stood waving farewells to Victor, who in response waved his adieux.
As Lucie came up Paulette wiped her eyes, turning to Mons. Carriere to say hastily: “Do not let us mention Monsieur Victor, if you please.”
“He has gone, Paulette,” cried Lucie. “Is he not fine and brave? Ah me, I wish—”
“Cela ne fait rien,” Paulette interrupted witha shrug of her shoulders. “The next thing is to find Mons. Du Bois. What is gone is gone.”
“Do you think it possible that my grandfather is here?” Lucie asked Mons. Carriere.
“It is very possible. This youngpoilu, who has just left, charged me to take you to a safe place, to house the donkey and to return it to one Jacques La Rue when opportunity came.Allons, then, to my house we go and then proceed to investigate. You are able to walk, madame? By the way, have you been hurt that your head is bound up in such fashion?”
“She has shed her blood for France,” cried Lucie. “That wound was caused by the enemy.”
“Ma foi, what a fantasie!” cried Paulette. “I assure you, monsieur, that my hurt was caused simply by a falling wall. I was passing; the wall gives way, the brick descends upon my head; that is all.”
“Ah, but the falling wall, that came from the bombs of the enemy,” persisted Lucie. “Is it not, monsieur, that she has suffered for France?”
“Most surely,” he answered. “She has been wounded, though indirectly, by the enemy, and so is to be honored as a soldier.”
“There,” exclaimed Lucie, “it is as I said, Paulette.”
“La la,” she responded, “this sort of argumentis a thing to make one laugh, and quite aside from our business. Where is it we go, monsieur, without wasting more words or time?”
“We go to my house where you rest until I have completed my quest for Mons. Du Bois. If I do not discover him, then we will see what can be done about your pursuing your journey to Paris. Meanwhile you have nothing to do but make yourselves comfortable. My housekeeper will see to that, I assure you.”
“But, monsieur,” Paulette began protesting.
He lifted his hand to silence her. “It is nothing. In these days one takes what comes and says no word.”
They followed him up the street, turned a corner and halted before a house which reminded Lucie of her own home. A green gate set in a white wall led, probably, into just such another garden as she had left so regretfully. It was through this gate that they entered, and, true to Lucie’s expectations, the garden was there, holding the familiar trees and flowers which spoke to her of home. Her lips trembled and her eyes filled with tears. She stole a glance at Paulette whose face had a wooden expression. She was looking neither to the right nor left.
“Marianne,” called Mons. Carriere.
A stout, middle-aged woman came to a side door.
“We have guests,” announced Mons. Carriere. “See that they have everything to make them comfortable. They have passed through grievous scenes, Marianne. They are victims of the war. This good woman, you see, has been wounded, and mademoiselle here has become separated from her parents, has passed the night alone in a cow shed in the very track of the enemy.”
“Mon Dieu!” cried Marianne, hurrying down the steps. “Certainly, monsieur, they shall of the best. I, myself, will see that they are cared for. Enter, madame. Enter, mademoiselle. I am honored.”
They passed into the house, where Marianne bustled about in great excitement and presently a plentiful meal was set before them to which Mons. Carriere left them while he went forth upon his errand of inquiry. It was not long before Paulette and Marianne were chattering together like old friends, their conversation interspersed with many pious ejaculations, and on Marianne’s part with many expressions of astonishment. Soon tiring of their talk Lucie stole out into the garden, finding it upon closer investigation very like, yet unlike, her own. There was no stone bench. There was no cherry tree overhanging the wall over which she might see Annette’s face appear. She wondered what Annette was doing. This recalled Pom Pom,whose achievements had been made the subject of some of Paulette’s recital. She wondered where he was. In the excitement of her parting from Victor, and in reaching this haven of rest, she had not thought of much except the possibility of soon seeing her grandfather, forgetting for the moment all about the little dog. The last she had seen of him he was at the station at Victor’s heels.
Starting up from her seat in alarm she was about to reënter the house when she heard at the gate a little whining sound, then a quick sharp bark. “Pom Pom,” she called, “is it then you?”
A joyful bark answered. She ran to the gate, admitting the little creature, who jumped upon her in wild delight. “I wonder where you have been,” said Lucie, gathering him up in her arms. Pom Pom tried to explain in dog language, but Lucie did not understand that he was trying to tell her of his adventures, and that he had followed for some distance a rapidly moving something which was bearing away his beloved master, that finding he could not overtake this galloping monster he had returned to the station, nosed about till he caught the right scent and so had traced his second best beloved to this present spot.
“I suppose you are hungry,” remarked Lucie.
Pom Pom quite understood this and answeredaccordingly. His answer brought Marianne to the door. “Is it this so wonderful dog you have there?” she asked. “He shall have food of the best. If he prefers, mademoiselle, he shall have it there in the garden. I will bring it to him.”
She went off, soon returning with a dish of meaty scraps and a pan of milk upon which Pom Pom set to work without delay, finishing up by licking both pan and dish. Then he lay down contentedly at Lucie’s feet.
She had settled herself comfortably in a high-backed rustic chair which stood invitingly in the shade. It was a delightful resting place. The flitting of birds, the hum of bees, the odor of flowers, gave her a homelike feeling. She was very tired, she realized, for she had endured a rough journey, and her sleep of the night before had been none too sweet. It was a kind Providence which had led her into such a spot as this, yet, she reflected, it was all of Victor’s doing. Grandfather, where was he? When would she hear from her parents? What of Annette? These and other wandering questions passed through her mind, becoming more and more vague till finally both little dog and little girl were sound asleep.