PAUL
Jeanne's baby was as beautiful as little Margot, though she did not lie
upon lacy pillows in a Paris apartment.
Jeanne held the child tightly in her arms, as she rocked back and forth
on a broken chair, and as she rocked she looked out upon the poor,
little village street. Jeanne was a troubled young mother.
Paul had been at the front for many weeks now. He did not even know that
little Jeanne was born. If only Paul would come back to the village!
There was talk of an invasion. Many small towns of France were being
invaded and burned by the enemy. Would this little town be next?
Each day the villagers asked themselves this question and lived in
terror. Many had already started to tramp toward Paris. Many were
deserting the village.
But Jeanne could not go. There was little Jeanne now. And even if she
could have gone, she would never have left until her Paul had come back.
Each day a letter went to Paul at the front. Each day Jeanne trembled at
the postman's footsteps outside her door.
But no news. Only whispers and more whispers of invasion--invasion!
Oh, if Paul would only come back!
Jeanne rocked her baby.
The invasion came. It was one of the last invasions before the Great War
came to an end. The enemy burned the little town to the ground.
The great march of the refugees had started. The roads to Paris were
alive with homeless people--struggling, homeless humanity, with only the
hope of reaching Paris alive.
The village--Paul's village--was a desolate place. As the troop of
French soldiers returned after the invasion and marched into it, there
was not a soul to be seen. Among those marching French soldiers came
Paul.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF TYPICAL THATCH ROOFED HOUSES IN A LITTLE
FRENCH VILLAGE]
To the scene of his home he ran. Everything--everything was in ruins!
His house! Gone! His wife!
"Jeanne! Jeanne!" Paul's voice was a shriek.
"Look, my son, in the cellar. Many of them hid in cellars for days
before." It was a kind-faced old man speaking.
The distracted Paul dashed into the underground stone cave and called
again, "Jeanne, oh, Jeanne!"
A little sound came from a corner in the dark, damp cellar. The soldier
stopped suddenly, and his ears became those of a forest animal, so
sharp, so alert was he.
"My little one! Jeanne!" he called.
He struck a match. His heart nearly stopped. His Jeanne was not there.
But something moved in the corner--something small and white.
"A baby!" Paul gasped.
His voice had dropped to a husky whisper. He lifted the small, white
bundle. It was a baby--a tiny young baby!
The soldier carried the child out into the light. The little one touched
his cheek with a pink hand.
"A baby!" breathed Paul, as he held this bit of humanity close in his
arms. "And my Jeanne! We were to have had one like this soon."
Then Paul noticed something around the baby's neck. A small locket had
been tied around her neck with a piece of faded ribbon.
With trembling fingers, Paul opened the locket. The soldier brushed his
hand across his eyes, for he could not believe what he saw. Inside the
locket was his picture!