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Transcriber’s note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
An additional Transcriber’s Note is at the end.
THE RED CROSS GIRLS ON THE FRENCH FIRING LINE
* * * * *
BOOKS BY MARGARET VANDERCOOK
THE RANCH GIRLS SERIES
THE RANCH GIRLS AT RAINBOW LODGE
THE RANCH GIRLS’ POT OF GOLD
THE RANCH GIRLS AT BOARDING SCHOOL
THE RANCH GIRLS IN EUROPE
THE RANCH GIRLS AT HOME AGAIN
THE RANCH GIRLS AND THEIR GREAT ADVENTURE
THE RED CROSS GIRLS SERIES
THE RED CROSS GIRLS IN THE BRITISH TRENCHES
THE RED CROSS GIRLS ON THE FRENCH FIRING LINE
THE RED CROSS GIRLS IN BELGIUM
THE RED CROSS GIRLS WITH THE RUSSIAN ARMY
THE RED CROSS GIRLS WITH THE ITALIAN ARMY
THE RED CROSS GIRLS UNDER THE STARS AND STRIPES
STORIES ABOUT CAMP FIRE GIRLS
THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT SUNRISE HILL
THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AMID THE SNOWS
THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE OUTSIDE WORLD
THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ACROSS THE SEA
THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS’ CAREERS
THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN AFTER YEARS
THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE DESERT
THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT THE END OF THE TRAIL
* * * * *
[Illustration: CAPTAIN CASTAIGNE LAY HIDDEN UNDER A PILE OF BED
CLOTHES--(_See page 225_)]
THE RED CROSS GIRLS ON THE FRENCH FIRING LINE
by
MARGARET VANDERCOOK
Author of “The Ranch Girls Series,” “Stories
about Camp Fire Girls Series,” etc.
Illustrated
The John C. Winston Company
Philadelphia
Copyright, 1916, by
The John C. Winston Co.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. PLACE DE L’OPERA 7
II. ANOTHER MEETING 23
III. THE CROSS OF THE LEGION OF HONOR 38
IV. ON THE ROOF 54
V. OTHER FIELDS 69
VI. THE CHATEAU 78
VII. NICOLETE 89
VIII. WHO GOES THERE? 103
IX. A CONVERSATION 116
X. CHATEAU D’AMÉLIE 126
XI. THE PREJUDICE DEEPENS 139
XII. NOT PEACE BUT WAR 150
XIII. DANGER 164
XIV. THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 177
XV. THE OTHER TWO GIRLS 192
XVI. THE DISCOVERY 202
XVII. RECOGNITION 214
XVIII. OUT OF THE DEPTH 227
XIX. EUGENIA 240
XX. THE POOL OF TRUTH 250
* * * * *
THE RED CROSS GIRLS ON THE FRENCH FIRING LINE
CHAPTER I _Place de l’Opera_
Not long after the beginning of the war in Europe four American girls
set sail from New York City to aid in the Red Cross nursing.
When they boarded the “Philadelphia” they were almost strangers to one
another. And never were girls more unlike.
Eugenia Peabody, the oldest of the four, hailed from Massachusetts
and appeared almost as stern and forbidding as the rock-bound coasts.
Privately the others insisted in the early part of their acquaintance
that this same Eugenia must have been born an “old maid.”
Mildred Thornton was the daughter of a distinguished New York judge and
her mother a prominent society woman. But Mildred herself cared little
for a butterfly existence. With the call of the suffering sounding in
her ears she had given up a luxurious existence for the hardships and
perils of a Red Cross nurse.
The youngest of the four girls, Barbara Meade, was a very small person
with a large store of energy and unexpectedness. And the last girl,
Nona Davis, was a native of the conservative old city of Charleston,
South Carolina. Although a mystery shadowed her mother’s history, Nona
had been brought up by her father, a one-time Confederate general, with
all the ideas and traditions of the old South.
Yet in spite of these contrasts in their natures and lives, the four
American Red Cross girls had spent more than six months caring for
the wounded British soldiers in the Sacred Heart Hospital in northern
France.
With the closing of the last story the news had come that the
headquarters of the hospital must be changed at once. At any hour the
German invaders might swarm into the countryside.
There had been but little time to remove the wounded. So, not wishing
to add to the responsibilities and finding themselves more in the way
than of service, the four girls had escaped together to a small town in
France farther away from the enemy’s line.
Here they concluded to offer their aid to the Croix de Rouge, or the
Red Cross Society of France.
But this was in the spring, and now another autumn has come round.
One wonders what the four American girls are doing and where they are
living.
* * * * *
The great square in front of the Grand Opera House in Paris surged with
excited people.
Automobiles and carriages crowded with men and women, waving
tri-colored flags, filled the streets. It was a warm October night with
a brilliant canopy of stars overhead.
“Vive la France! Vive l’Armée!” the throng shouted, swaying backward
and forward in its effort to draw closer to the great palace.
There must have been between five and ten thousand persons in the
neighborhood, for tonight France was celebrating her greatest
achievement of the war. At last the news had come that the victorious
French army had driven the Germans back across the frontiers of
Alsace-Lorraine. Once again the French flag was planted within their
lost provinces.
“Allons, enfants, de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé.”
In the crowd a woman had started the singing of the _Marseillaise_.
Immediately thousands of voices joined in the song, while thousands of
feet kept time upon the paving stones to this greatest of all marching
measures.
Six broad streets in Paris converge into a triangular square which
is known as the Place de l’Opera. From here one looks upward to the
opera house itself, a splendid building three stories in height and
approached by a broad flight of stone steps.
Standing within the crowd, a little to the left of the opera, was a
group of five persons, four of them girls, while the fifth was a young
man whose coat was buttoned in such a fashion that he appeared to have
but one arm. However, the other arm hung limp and useless underneath
his coat.
Although their appearance and accents were those of foreigners, two
of the girls in the little party were singing along with the French
crowd. The other two were silent, although their faces expressed equal
interest and animation.
Suddenly the singing of the street crowd ceased. The central door of
the opera house had been thrown open and a young woman came out upon
the portico. She was dressed in a clinging white robe and wore upon her
head a diadem of brilliants, while in her hands she carried the French
flag. So skilfully had the lights been arranged behind her that she
could be seen for a great distance. To the onlookers she represented
the symbolic female figure of the great French Republic, “Liberté,
Egalité, Fraternité.”
For a moment after her appearance there was a breathless silence, then
the next even more enthusiastic shouts resounded:
“Vive Chenel! Vive Chenel!” Hats were thrown into the air, thousands of
flags waved, while myriads of handkerchiefs fluttered like white doves.
It was a night to be always remembered by the people who shared its
rapture.
“Aux armes, citoyens, formez vos bataillons!
Marchons! Marchons!”
With the closing of the final verse of the _Marseillaise_, in the midst
of the wild applause, the smallest of the four girls in the little
group placed her hand gently upon the armless sleeve of her young man
companion.
“Tonight makes up for a good deal, doesn’t it, Dick?” she queried
a little wistfully. As she spoke her blue eyes were shining with
excitement, while a warm color flooded her cheeks.
The young fellow nodded. “It is the greatest spectacle I ever saw and
one we shall never forget,” he replied. “Yet there will be a greater
night to come when this war is finally over, though when that night
will be no one can foretell.”
Dick Thornton spoke gravely and seemed weary from the evening’s
excitement. But then something of what he had passed through in the
last six months showed in other ways than in his empty coat sleeve.
Without his knowledge, the girl who had been speaking continued to
study him for another moment. Then she turned to Mildred Thornton, who
was on her other side, and whispered:
“Mill, Dick is tired, but would rather die than confess it. Can’t you
think of some way to get us out of this crowd before the breaking up
begins? The jam then will be awful and we may not be able to keep
together.”
Up to the instant of Barbara Meade’s suggestion, Mildred had forgotten
all personal matters in her interest in the music and the vivid beauty
of the scene surrounding them. Now she too glanced toward her brother.
“Dick,” she suggested at once, “don’t you think we had best start back
toward our pension? Madame Chenel is to sing an encore and I’m sorry we
must miss it, but I really think it would be more sensible to go.”
With the closing of the _Marseillaise_ the celebrated singer had
disappeared. Now in the midst of Mildred’s remark she returned to the
balcony of the Opera House. No longer was she wearing her crown of
brilliants, nor carrying the immense French flag. Instead her head was
uncovered, showing her dark hair and eyes and the flag she bore was
British, not French.
Then she began singing in English, but with a delicious French accent:
“It’s a long way to Tipperary,
It’s a long way to go.”
The crowd joined in the chorus. There were soldiers on the street, who
had returned to Paris on leaves of absence, after learning English from
the Tommies in the trenches. Others had only a faint knowledge of a few
English words. But everybody sang, and because some of the voices were
French and others English the effect was all the more thrilling and
amusing.
Naturally Dick hesitated for a moment, then he remembered his own
condition. Certainly he would be powerless to push their way through
the great throng. Then if by chance rioting should break out from sheer
excitement, it would be impossible for him to protect four girls.
True, the American Red Cross girls were fairly well able to look after
themselves in most emergencies. But Dick Thornton did not like the idea
of having them put to the test at such a time and under the present
circumstances.
“I am afraid you are right, Mildred,” he agreed reluctantly. “Let’s
form a single file; I’ll go first and all of you follow me. Tell the
others.”
Mildred at once put her arm inside a young woman’s who was standing
near her, apparently oblivious of the past conversation. Yet one would
have expected Eugenia Peabody to have been first to have made the
sensible suggestion of the past few moments. Yet it was Barbara Meade
with whom it had actually originated.
But Eugenia too had been swept off her feet with enthusiasm. Moreover,
she could scarcely make up her mind now to agree to leave, although
plainly appreciating the situation. Eugenia looked surprisingly
handsome tonight.
In the first place, she wore a new Paris frock, which after long
insistence the other three girls had persuaded her to buy. It was an
inexpensive dress of dark-blue cloth and silk, but it was stylishly
made and extremely becoming. Above all, Eugenia had at last discarded
the unattractive hat in which she had set sail, and which she had
resolutely worn until this day. The new one had only cost five francs,
but one should see the character of hat that can be bought in Paris for
one dollar!
Eugenia, it is true, had begrudged even that small amount for her own
adornment, until Nona and Barbara had refused to appear upon the street
with her still in her ancient “Alpine.” However, although she rebelled
against the unnecessary extravagance, so far Eugenia had not regretted
her purchases.
At the present moment she was standing next to Nona Davis and turned to
speak to her.
“Nona, I am sorry when it’s all so wonderful, but we must start back to
the pension at once. Please come on,” she insisted authoritatively.
And Eugenia had every reason to believe that Nona heard her words
and agreed with her. She even thought that Nona moved on a few paces
behind her. Moreover, this is exactly what she did. Nevertheless, Nona
afterwards insisted that her act must have been purely involuntary,
since she was not conscious of having heard or obeyed her companion.
If the little group of five Americans had been enthralled by the
night’s excitement, it was Nona Davis who was most completely swept off
her feet. Never had she even dreamed of such beauty and glamour as this
gala night in Paris offered!
So little even of her own land had Nona seen, nothing save Charleston
and the surrounding neighborhood and the view from her car window on
her way to New York City.
The few days in London had been overhung with the thought of the work
ahead. But here in Paris for the past week the four Red Cross girls had
been enjoying a brief holiday and were completely under the spell of
the fascinating and beautiful city.
Upon persons with a far wider experience of life and places than Nona
Davis, Paris frequently casts this same spell. Indeed, it sometimes
seems impossible that a city can be so beautiful and yet suited to the
uses of everyday life. Both in Paris and in Venice one often expects to
wake up and find the city a dream and not a reality.
Certainly Nona had turned automatically to do as Eugenia had commanded
her. But unfortunately, at the same moment Madame Chenel finished her
English song and began at once on another which by an odd chance had a
reminiscent quality for Nona. Instinctively she paused to listen and
remember.
Her impression of the song was one of long ago. Nona’s mother had
once been in New Orleans. Now the vision came to her daughter of an
old-fashioned spinet at one end of the drawing room in her home in
Charleston, and of a young woman in a white dress with blue ribbons
sitting there singing this same French verse.
For the moment everything else was forgotten. The girl simply stood
spellbound until the great artist finished. Only when she began bowing
her thanks to the applauding crowd, did Nona turn again to look for
Eugenia and her other friends. But as more than five minutes had passed
since their warning, and as they had believed Nona following them, no
one of the four could be seen.
Moreover, at this same moment the great crowd began to break up. Then,
as is always the case, everybody struggled to get away at the same
moment.
Just at first Nona was not alarmed at finding herself alone; she was
simply bewildered. However, because she was endeavoring to stand still
while every one else was moving, she was constantly being shoved from
side to side.
Her first intention was to remain in the same place for a few moments.
Then Dick or one of the girls would probably return for her. However,
she soon appreciated that no human being could push their way back
through the thronging multitude. Moreover, she too must move along or
be trampled upon.
Fortunately, the fact that she was alone did not seem to have been
observed. For although the people in her neighborhood were not
rough and ugly, as an English or Teutonic crowd might have been,
nevertheless, Nona knew that for a young girl to be alone at night in
the streets of Paris was an unheard-of thing. Besides, later on the
crowd might indulge in noisier ways of celebrating the German defeat
than by listening to the singing of the great prima donna.
What had she best do? As she was being pushed along, Nona was also
thinking rapidly, although somewhat confusedly. She had not been on the
street alone since her arrival. Both Mildred and Dick Thornton were
familiar with Paris and had been acting as the others’ escorts.
Their little French pension happened to be over on the other side of
Paris. Fortunately, Nona remembered that she could find a bus near the
Madeleine, the famous church not more than a dozen blocks away from the
neighborhood of the opera. But how to reach this destination and what
bus to take after her arrival? These were problems still to be dealt
with. First of all, she must keep her forlorn condition a secret from
observers in order not to be spoken to by an impertinent stranger.
Naturally Nona appreciated that it was impossible for all Frenchmen to
be equally courteous. Therefore, one of them might misunderstand her
present predicament.
However, as there was nothing else to do she continued moving with the
crowd. In the meantime she kept assuring herself that it was absurd to
be so nervous over an ordinary adventure. Think what experiences she
had so lately passed through as a Red Cross nurse!
But if she had only been wearing her nurse’s uniform, always it served
as a protection! Yet naturally when one was off duty and merely a
holiday visitor in a city, it was pleasanter to dress like other
persons.
Like Eugenia, Nona was also wearing a new frock. Hers was of black
silk with a hat of black tulle, making her fair hair and skin more
conspicuous by contrast. Certainly she would be apt to attract
attention among the darker, more vividly colored French girls.
But Nona had gone half the distance to the Madeleine before she was
annoyed. Then just as she was about to cross the street at one of the
corners, an arm was unexpectedly slipped through hers.
With her heart pounding with terror and every bit of color drained from
her cheeks, Nona looked up into the eyes of an impertinent youth.
“La belle Americaine!” he announced insolently.