CHAPTER XIIIOLD FRIENDS AND NEW
THEN suddenly appeared Victor on his second permission, and wearing a sergeant’s stripes, won for his tact, his influence over the men, and for his bravery during a night raid. But of this exploit he would say nothing, merely laughing off the question when Lucie asked him how he had earned his promotion. “I did nothing at all, nothing more than any one would have done if he had had the same chance. They gave me my stripes simply because of my youthful beauty.”
He came in with a rush and a dash, immediately making the whole place seem fuller of life and action. “What’s all this I hear? What’s all this?” he asked after the first salutations, “going away, are you? Well, I can scarcely blame you. Where are you going?”
“We don’t know yet,” Lucie answered.
“Then I am wiser than you. I know, I know.”
“Then why did you ask?” Lucie gave his arm a little tap, making him drop the match with which he was lighting his cigarette. “You did it just to tease. How do you know?”
“Aha! Revenge! Revenge! I shall not tell you, because you spoiled my light.”
“You will have to tell Paulette.”
“How do you know I will? I’m not afraid of Paulette. She is not a Boche.”
“And are you afraid of a Boche?”
Victor laughed and took from his pocket a letter which he handed to Paulette. “It is from Captain Du Bois,” he said.
Paulette took it with an air of importance and went to the window to read it, a slow process with her.
“You have seen my father, then, Victor?” said Lucie. “Do tell me how he looks.”
“Fit as a fiddle. We had a long talk and he charged me with this letter to Paulette.”
“And have you none for me?”
“No, but I have a message from Pom Pom.”
Lucie looked wistfully over at Paulette, whose lips were moving as she laboriously read the words before her. “I think I might see the letter, too,” she said.
“You don’t want Pom’s message then. You don’t look interested,” said Victor.
“Oh, I do want it, but of course I am more interested in what my father has to say. What is Pom’s message?”
“He says to tell you that when those shoes are worn out he will send you another pair if he has to rob a Boche to get them.”
“What nonsense! How is the dear little fellow, and why didn’t you bring him with you?”
“I was afraid he wouldn’t want to go back, and I’d hate to have him shot as a deserter. The boys are all devoted to him. My friend Honoré has him in charge while I am on leave.”
“Oh, yes, Honoré. Shall you see his family this time?”
“Happy thought! Why not all of us go out there for another good meal. It will please them to see us and to hear from the lad, and then you would like to make your adieux, wouldn’t you?”
“If I could but tell where we were going. Paulette—”
But Victor interrupted any information by crying out: “Don’t tell her, Paulette. Don’t tell. It is a secret.”
Lucie gave her head, an indignant toss. “I think you are too horrid for words,” she cried. “I shall not stay any longer. I will go to Odette, and you two can keep your old secrets.” She flounced out of the room, leaving Victor and Paulette laughing and whispering together.
However, she could not long keep out of humor with Victor; he was too full of his jokes, in too rollicking a mood to be withstood, but Lucie would not ask him another word about the secret, though she listened to his plans forholiday making. It was only after he had gone that she questioned Paulette. “I think I should see my father’s letter,” she remarked with dignity.
Paulette smiled, lifted her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders. “But no, my child. I promised Monsieur Victor that I would not show it.”
“Then it must have some very unpleasant word in it.”
“On the contrary.”
“Of course that Victor likes to tease, but I did not think you, Paulette, would be unkind to your Lucie.”
Paulette’s sly look of amusement vanished. “I, unkind? I would not be that, my pigeon. Now, what would you? I promise monsieur that I will not tell because he wishes to give you a pleasant surprise. I can say so much, a very pleasant surprise. He is a good lad. Will you then deprive him of this satisfaction, when he has done so much for us? He is quite excited over this, and would be greatly disappointed if I revealed the secret.”
Lucie sighed. “Very well, then, I will not insist. But can you tell how soon I am to know?”
“Let me see. To-morrow we pack. We also go to this meal at the restaurant. That is enough for the day. I think by the day afterwe may begin our journey. At the end of the journey you will know.”
“Two days, two whole days. Well, there will be so much going on that I will have no time to sit and think about it, there is that to say. We must say good-by to Miss Lowndes. I wonder, by the way, if she knows?”
“Perhaps. I will ask Monsieur Victor.”
Victor satisfied them on this point when he appeared the next morning. Yes, he had seen Mlle. Lowndes, a charming young lady. He liked blue eyes. He made the last remark with a sly glance at Lucie.
“I suppose that is because you have blue eyes yourself,” she retorted.
“Perhaps. I do not know,” he returned serenely.
“And I suppose you let her into the secret.”
“It was what your father asked that I should do. He did not wish her to concern herself about your affairs any longer than was necessary. He knew that she would go to any amount of pains to relieve your situation, but happily she turned all this over to me, your humble Victor.”
“Humble!” scoffed Lucie, and Victor laughed.
The meal at the Restaurant Honoré, while not quite so great a success as before, was merrier. Odette was of the party and was so excited that she sparkled and bubbled over with fun, matchingVictor’s saucy speeches with wittier ones, till Lucie felt herself quite cast in the shade. She was glad that Odette was having so good a time, but she was rather aggrieved that she was not placed more to the fore. She was still brooding over the secret, and more than once was far away in thought while Odette and Victor chatted and made merry. She was not sorry to leave Paris, but this going to the unknown was not in the manner of an ordinary undertaking and she wondered what the new life would be like.
She was so silent on the way home that Victor, too, became grave and asked her very seriously: “What is the matter, Lucie? Are you really so angry with me?”
She shook her head and sighed.
“Then what is it? Are you sorry to be leaving Paris, or have I said something to hurt your feelings? I like blue eyes, of course, but I really like brown ones better.” And then Lucie laughed.
“You foolish boy,” she said, “as if I would care for a silly thing like that. Why should I care what sort of eyes you prefer?”
“But I should much prefer that you liked blue eyes. Do you?”
“I don’t know whether I do or not. It isn’t a matter that I ever think about.”
“No,” returned Victor reflectively, “I don’tsuppose you do—yet. I hope we shall have fine weather for our journey to-morrow, don’t you?”
“Our journey? Are you going, too?”
“Of course. I promised your father that I would see you to the very end of it, and take word back to him of how you fared.”
“You didn’t tell me that before.”
“No, but I tell you now. I hope you are going to be comfortable and happy, happier than you have been here.”
“It has not been so bad of late, but I shall not be grieved to go. I am longing for spring in the country. Is it real country to which we are going? You can tell me that much, can’t you?”
“I think one would call it real country.”
“I shall like that better than any town, unless it were our own little town, which after all is more like country than city.”
“I think you will like it. I hope so.”
“Is it far?”
“That depends upon what you call far. It would be quite a walk, not so great a distance to drive, and still less if one went by train.”
“And how do we go?”
“By train. Now I shall not tell you another word or you will worm the whole secret out of me. That Odette is a bright child.”
“She is older than I.”
“But you are still a child, very much of a child.”
“You are not much more yourself.”
“Oh, yes, or I would not be in the army.”
“You tell us very little about it. I heard more when you were talking to Madame and Monsieur Pierre to-day than I have heard at all.”
“One does not want to talk when one is away from the trenches. One likes to forget, although—” He paused and a far-off look came into his eyes, making him look older, and giving Lucie a feeling that he was distant in thought.
“Shall you be glad to get back?” she asked.
“I think so,” he answered slowly. “Yes, yes, of course. One is glad. The others are there and one must get back to them.”
That was all the talk for the moment but it left Lucie with an understanding of the other side of Victor’s character. Later she was to appreciate even more clearly that he was made of finer stuff than she imagined.
Miss Lowndes came in the afternoon, bringing little parting gifts to all. “I am sorry to lose you three dears,” she said, “but I do not despair of meeting you all again. You will write to me, Lucie, and tell me all about everything. I am so interested. Really I shall miss you very, very much. Perhaps I may have a chance to go your way one of these days. We all like to get away to nice, quiet, safe places for a rest when we are utterly wornout. I am coming to see you off to-morrow, and I am glad you have such a reliable escort as that nice Victor Guerin. I hope he will always look me up when he comes to town on leave, and I hope he may be spared,” she added gravely.
That Victor might not be spared the fate of so many, many of the bravepoilushad not occurred to Lucie. He was such a live person, that it was impossible to connect him with anything tragic. She gave Miss Lowndes a startled look, and when Victor came that evening all the chill of her attitude of the morning had passed away. This might be the last time. It was a dreadful thought, and she kept near him, hanging on every word, fancying that the memory of them might some day be all that she had left of this friendship.
For the last time she stood at the little window which looked down upon the deserted garden. For the last time she saw the sunset gilding the roofs and steeples of the city. The pigeons would still be strutting down on the pavement below when she was far away. The street noises would be as distinct to-morrow though she would not be hearing them. The thoughts made her pensive yet not sad. Odette came and joined her. Lucie put her arm around the slim waist of this little friend. “Are you sorry that this is the last evening, Odette?” she asked.
“No, no, no,” replied Odette vehemently, “I am glad, thankful. I should not be if I were not going with you and good Paulette. This place is full of horrors, but it has given me you and Paulette so I do not hate it; otherwise I should. My only happy memories of Paris will be those in which you are.”
“Aren’t you glad that Victor is going with us?”
“Yes, I am if you are. He is a bravegarçon, but I feel more at home with that big Jean. I am used to those like him. He reminds me of the men who worked in the fields near my village. I could never have offered Nenette and Rintintin to Monsieur Victor, but to Jean, yes, it was quite another thing; it was quite natural.”
“But you chattered away like ababillardeat the restaurant this morning.”
“Very true, but when I am excited I can do that. It is not that one is afraid, but that one does not wish.”
The swallows circled high above the chimneys. The sun-shot clouds turned to gray. The garden became an indistinct mass of grass and foliage, and then the girls turned away.
They started early the next day. Paulette all in a twitter of excitement. Had monsieur the safe-conducts? Where was her green umbrella? They must not forget to give Mathilde the key. What was the time? They must notbe late. At last the station was reached. Miss Lowndes came running up at the last moment with chocolate and fruit, and, best of all, with a storybook in English for Lucie. The train moved out. Paris was left behind.
Past towns and quiet villages, past green fields and budding forests, and finally at a small station they left the train. There was a little village beyond, and beyond the village stretched the cultivated ground of farmsteads. Victor looked around and finally hailed an old man with acharrette. “Ah, Jules, you are here. That is good.” He turned to Lucie. “Will you go in thecharretteor will you walk?”
“How far is it?”
“About a mile, perhaps less. We can go in thecharretteand Jules can come back for the luggage. The horse is rather old, you see, and perhaps it would be best to spare him too heavy a load.”
“I think I should prefer to walk after sitting so long, and then one can see the country better.”
“Very well. And you Paulette, you Odette?”
“We will walk, monsieur,” both replied.
So they started off at a brisk pace, the old man with the ancient horse bringing up the rear. War had not touched this corner of the world set apart from the raging of battles, the stir of camps. All was of a Sabbath quiet, but there were only women and children workingin the fields. In the trees where young leaves were putting out, birds were nesting. A lark soared singing overhead. It seemed as if he might at last reach the drift of white clouds piled up in the blue. Presently they came to a little shrine set by the roadside. With one accord all knelt for a moment. There were tears in Lucie’s eyes when she arose. “It has been so long since I saw one of those,” she whispered to Odette.
“Do I not know? Do I not know?” returned Odette in a tremulous voice. “It is like coming home again.”
The little cart with the jogging horse passed them and went on. Victor made a signal to Jules as he passed, which was answered by an understanding nod.
“You seem to know that old man,” remarked Lucie.
“I have seen him once or twice before,” responded Victor.
Paulette gave a little chuckle which quickly changed to a clearing of the throat as Lucie looked at her sharply. “It seems so like my old home of childhood that I laugh,” she explained.
“Are you tired? Would you like to rest a moment?” asked Victor.
“How much farther is it?” asked Lucie.
“We have come about half the distance. Atthe top of the next hill we shall be able to see the house.”
“Then you know it. You have been here before.”
“Oh, yes, several times. That is why I could conduct you, because I knew the way.”
Lucie stood still and lifted her face to the sky. “How lovely it all is; those floating fleecy clouds, this sweet-smelling air, the birds, the trees. We shall be much happier here; I am sure of it, aren’t you, Paulette?”
“It is what I have desired, to go to the country,” she replied. “Let us get on, my child.”
So they traveled on. At the top of the hill Victor pointed out a low, long white house set in an orchard, and surrounded by smaller buildings. “That is where we go,” Victor told the others.
“I hope they want us,” said Lucie. “It seems strange to be going to people I never saw before, and whom I know nothing at all about. It is very good of them to take us in.”
“They will be glad enough to have helpers in the fields, you may be sure of that.”
“But I shall not be that exactly, shall I?”
“Well, no; you will be a guest, rather more like a guest.”
“But papa pays for me?”
“No doubt.”
Suddenly Lucie stopped short. “Victor! the secret? Where is it? I forgot entirely. You were going to tell me when we came to the end of the journey.”
“But we haven’t quite come to the end. When we reach the house I will tell you if you want to know.”
“There is nothing at all familiar about the place,” said Lucie, stopping again to look around. “I am very sure I never saw it before, and it is not in the direction of our home. I know that is still occupied by the Germans and it doesn’t look as if a German ever saw this part of our dear France.”
Victor made no reply but continued on the way downhill. A little farther on he turned into a lane which led between rows of apple trees. The little cart had already arrived. They could see Jules, pointing, gesticulating. Two or three persons came out of the house. A figure detached itself from the group and came running down the lane.
Victor turned to Lucie with a smile: “There comes the secret,” he said.
“Lucie, Lucie, Lucie!” The call sounded nearer and more excited as the figure approached.
Lucie paused, listened, looked, then she too dashed forward crying: “Annette, Annette!” And in another moment, laughing and crying, the two friends were in each other’s arms.
“Well, how do you like the secret?” asked Victor as he came up. “Was it worth waiting for?”
“It was, it was,” cried Lucie. “I never dreamed it was this. How did it happen? Tell me all about it.”
“First come to the house and see grandmother and grandfather,” said Annette. “They are so impatient to see you, my aunt, too, for you see this is the home of my grandmother’s sister.”
“And my old home,” put in Victor.
“Really, Victor? I never dreamed of all this,” she repeated.
Annette urged her toward the house where stood Monsieur and Madame Le Brun ready to welcome her. The old lady held out trembling hands and drew Lucie close, kissing her on each cheek. “Ah, my little girl,” she said, “we did not dream when we parted that such sad things could happen to our dear France.”
Mons. Le Brun wiped his eyes as he faltered out: “Your grandfather, my old and valued friend, he is no more. It is hard to believe that the good God has taken him, but I thank heaven that you are spared; and your father, he is safe, is he not?”
“So far as we know,” returned Lucie, “but my mother, we do not know where she is.”
“In good time, in good time,” said Mons. LeBrun soothingly. “And here is Madame Guerin, Victor’s grandmother, who is eager to see you.”
Lucie saw a little bright-eyed woman who greeted her affectionately, and who then went forward to speak to Paulette and Odette and bring them into the house.
“It is so wonderful to see you,” said Annette, who could scarcely take her eyes off her newly recovered friend. “When Victor wrote to ask about your coming I could scarcely contain myself with joy, for I felt as if you were lost utterly. Oh, we shall have happy days together in spite of hard times.”
“So it was Victor who thought of it.”
“Did he not tell you? It is like him to put a commendable thing upon some one else. Come here, Victor, and tell Lucie about how you managed this thing.”
So Victor came over from where he was being adored by his grandmother and told his tale. “You see,” he began, “when your father knew that Paris was getting to be unsafe and that Paulette was anxious to get you away, he asked me if I could think of any place where you might be protected and happy and where Paulette could also be. Immediately I thought of this, my own home. I knew my grandmother needed help in the fields and I thought it would be brighter for all if you could join Annette. Moreover, I knew my grandmother would beonly too glad to have you come, and that it would be a consolation to your father to know you were among friends. I told him my plan. He urged me to write at once and so there you are; the thing was accomplished.”
“And well accomplished,” said Annette with satisfaction.
“And where did you see my father?” asked Lucie.
Victor looked surprised. “It is easy to see him. Didn’t you know that he and I are in the same brigade?”
“I didn’t know, but I am glad it is so. Where is Odette? I want Annette to meet her. She is such a dear girl, Annette, and we are great friends.”
“The little peasant girl, do you mean?” asked Annette rather superciliously.
“Joan of Arc was a peasant girl,” returned Lucie reproachfully.
“So she was,” agreed Annette.