THE END OF THE JOURNAL
September 25, 1914. It's so long since I've written in this journal that
I'm quite discouraged about it. Not a single entry have I made since
that wonderful day over at Louis's when they found the document. Well,
there hasn't been much to write about, and we've all felt lonely and
blue and _apprehensive_ (that's the only word I can think of to express
it) ever since Louis sailed for France.
They did not get away quite as soon as they had expected. Changed
conditions and sailing dates delayed them a week or more longer than the
original plan. I think it was at least the twentieth of August before
they left for New York and their steamer.
Oh, it is such a desolate place now, across the Green, since they went
away,--all shut up and dark and lonely! But Monsieur has left the key
with us, and asked us to go through it once in a while to see that
everything was all right. In the spring he intends to have an architect
come and restore the "long kitchen" to exactly its former appearance,
and to put all the rest of the house in good shape. He says that, since
Louis wishes it so much, he shall come back here whenever there is an
opportunity, that is, whenever his duties will permit, and that he can
live here as long as he likes. That is glorious news. We are all so
happy about it, and Louis was just wild with joy.
But _will_ he come back? That is the awful question. Aviation is
dangerous enough, even here in a peaceful country. What earthly chance
of life has one over there in the midst of this horrible war? It makes
me shudder every time I think of it, and I don't dare think of it much.
I have awful nightmares about it every night.
The Imp has taken to reading up everything she can find on the subject,
and she insists on telling us hair-raising tales about the dangers and
accidents that happen to military aviators. I asked her once if it
didn't simply make her sick to think of such things in connection with
Louis, but she only said:
"Oh, no! Louis's not going to have things like that happen to _him_.
He's different!" I only wish I had her faith.
Louis's departure with the marquis was a nine-days' wonder here, of
course. Everybody talked about it incessantly for a while, speculating
at the greatest length on why in the world a French nobleman should do
such an eccentric thing. But naturally, no one except we three girls
ever guessed the truth, or ever will. For it was the marquis's wish
that, even as things turned out, the truth about the dauphin should
never be made public.
We have all gone back to school, and are plodding along in the same
prosaic way. The only thing we're doing that really interests us is to
knit an outfit for Louis--a sweater, a helmet, some wristlets, and
socks. He said before he left that he'd probably need them, and we
promised to make them as quickly as possible.
September 28. We had a letter from Louis to-day,--the first since he
left. Of course it caused the wildest excitement. He said they had a
safe voyage across, and he wasn't seasick a minute, though the marquis
and old Mr. Meadows were very ill. Louis said that they went straight to
Paris, and there the marquis used his influence and had him enlisted in
the French Air Service. In a few days Louis was notified to report for
duty at the Hôtel des Invalides. Here he went through his physical
examination, passed it, and then was sent to Dijon to get his outfit,
which is provided by the government. After going through all that, he
was sent to Pau (we've looked up these places in the Atlas, and know
exactly where they are!) to become a member of the flying-school.
Louis had been there only a week when he wrote this letter, but he says
that, owing to the hard study he put in on Page Calvin's machine, he's
almost perfect in the mechanical parts,--the engine and steering,--and
instead of having to spend several weeks at that, he can soon begin the
actual flying. Of course I don't understand all his technical talk, but
one thing is easy to see--he's completely and absolutely _happy_. He
says he'll write again when he's actually "been up," but that he has
hardly a moment to himself during the day, and at night he's so tired
that he almost falls asleep on the way to bed. The French course must be
very strict and exacting.
November 22, 1914. I didn't suppose it would be so long before I'd write
here again, but there's generally nothing much to write. Paradise Green
has returned to its old, sleepy nonentity of a place since Louis went
away. Only one thing has stirred the quiet surface of our family. Dave
has been extremely morose and uneasy ever since Louis's departure, and
yesterday he launched a thunderbolt in our midst by asking Father if he
could go off to "the front" and enlist in the French army. Father was
very quiet about it, but he refused absolutely. Then Dave broke down and
blubbered like a baby. He said he wanted to do something to help in
this beastly mess, and that he thought America was "rotten" not to get
into it, too. But Father said:
"If America ever does get into it, Dave, you'll go with my full
permission,--but not till then!" So Dave had to be content with that.
We heard from Louis to-day,--the most _wonderful_ letter! Two weeks ago
he finished his course in aviation and was ordered to duty at the front.
So off he went (he wasn't allowed to tell us where the "front" was) and
has been there ever since, scouting over the enemy's lines in a biplane
with the _chef pilote_, to familiarize himself with conditions. He will
soon be actively engaged with the enemy. It makes me sick and cold to
think of it. Will we ever see Louis alive again, walking about Paradise
Green in the old way? I have simply made up my mind that it is not
possible,--that if it ever happens, it will be nothing short of a
_miracle_.
On looking back in this journal, I find that I have kept it exactly one
year. I have fulfilled my promise to Miss Cullingford, and I believe,
if she could only read it, she'd find it a very interesting "supplement
to history." But of course she never will read it. That would be
breaking my promise to the marquis. I do not think I will write in it
any more. The year is over, and Louis has gone--and may never come back
any more.
April 10, 1917. To-day, in an old drawer of my desk, locked away and
almost completely forgotten by me, I found this journal that I kept
three long years ago. How long, how _very_ long they seem now! I was
sixteen then, and still in high school. I am nineteen--nearly
twenty--now, and have been a year in college. At present I am home for
the Easter vacation, back in little Paradise Green, and in rummaging
through my desk I found this journal. The idea has come to me to add one
more entry, because it will make the story complete.
When I last wrote here, I was positively certain that Louis would die,
that he would be killed in some terrible battle or have some accident
to his aëroplane. Nothing of the sort has occurred, marvelous as it may
seem. Yes, the miracle has happened, and Louis, our same old Louis, is
back in his home on Paradise Green! What is more, the Meadows, or
Mettots, as I now call them, are back here with him, just as in the old
days. It's too wonderful for words!
But the marquis is not here. He never will be here any more, for he died
a year ago, leaving his title and what little remains of his estate to
Louis. The greater part of it has been turned over to the French
Government.
But Louis! Oh, that has been the wonderful part of the story! He has
been known for two years as one of the most daring and successful
members of the French Aviation Corps, with a record of captured enemy
machines and successful engagements to be proud of. He has been
decorated by the French Government and honored in a dozen ways, and has
never been wounded or injured till just lately.
In an engagement at Eaucourt l'Abbaye last October, toward the finish of
the great Somme battle, he was wounded in the side, but managed to land
his machine safely. The wound was not serious in itself, but his old
enemy, blood-poisoning, set in, and for a while it was nip-and-tuck
whether he could recover. But Louis says his constitution is "sound
American," and after a long siege he was pronounced out of danger and
recovered. He has been compelled by his commanding officer, however, to
take a long leave of absence, to recover complete health before he
returns to the front.
So he came back to Paradise Green, to take up life, as he says, where he
left it. During this Easter vacation we four have been rollicking
around, just as we used to when we were children and hadn't a care on
our minds. Carol is as grown-up as I am, and is attending college with
me. The Imp is a tall, lanky creature now, nearly through high school,
and at times can be quite as exasperating as ever. They say she's cut
out for a brilliant future, but just at present her whole mind is
concentrated on becoming a Red Cross nurse, so that she can go off to
"the front" and get in the thick of it. Mother and Father won't stand
for it, of course, but trust the Imp to get her way--somehow.
And that brings me to another thing. America has at last entered the
war. We can scarcely believe it yet. Louis is jubilant, and Dave
promptly claimed the promise that Father made him three years ago.
Father has consented, as he said he would, but is feeling pretty grave
about it. And the look in Mother's eyes is enough to keep Dave from
effervescing too openly. I dare not think very far into the future, but
for the immediate present we all are trying to be happy.
I had almost decided to destroy this journal, but something Louis told
us has made me change my mind. He said that before Monsieur (I cannot
get out of the habit of calling him that!) passed away, he told Louis
that he had changed his mind about keeping secret any longer the story
of Louis's descent. He said that he believed the dauphin would have been
filled with pride at the wonderful attainments and service to France of
the descendant of his own adopted son, and would glory in the world's
knowledge of his connection with him. So Louis said that, although he
wasn't ever going to say anything about it himself, he didn't specially
care if the rest of us did. The matter seemed of little importance to
him, anyhow. He said that probably no one would believe it, anyway, as
there were too many stories already concerning the escape and claims of
the "lost dauphin."
Probably they won't, and I wouldn't blame them, for it does seem
well-nigh incredible. However that may be, I've changed my mind about
this journal. I'm going to show it to Miss Cullingford. She and I have
always been great friends, even after I left high school, and I want her
to read for herself the whole history of this wonderful thing that
happened on little, out-of-the-way Paradise Green.