SUZANNE
It was a month since the day when Madame Villard had received two
letters. Just a month had passed since the silver-haired lady and her
daughter had pored over two such different letters.
One was a scrawl--Paul's. He wrote that his baby was on her way to Paris
to her grandmother. It was a dirty, scrawly note, but full of hope to
the two who read it.
The next letter, neat and precise, was from the government. Before they
opened it, the two women knew: Paul's little one was now an orphan. For
a month, how that mother and sister waited!
With Madame Villard lived her daughter and her daughter's husband. They
were the parents of Baby Margot.
Margot's father had come back from the war. But though he had returned
to his dear ones, he would never again be able to walk. He would be an
invalid for life. So Margot's mother had two helpless ones to care for.
And one of those was Margot's father.
Grandmother had taken care of little Margot from the day of her birth.
Starry-eyed Baby Margot was Grandmother Villard's charge--and a joyous
charge to the old lady. But despite the happiness of her Margot, the
heart of Madame Villard yearned for that other wee one--her son's little
orphaned daughter.
She waited longingly for Paul's child to be brought to her. She waited
until she could wait no longer. Then she went out in search of little
Jeanne.
Madame Villard traveled to many villages in her search. She even asked
the government to help her.
She tried so hard to speed the little one's arrival. But she could not.
The child was never brought to her.
And now, to-day, a month having elapsed, Madame Villard was again
preparing to motor through the country to search. She intended to stop
at a little graveyard in the Argonne (är-gōn´) and pray.
[Illustration: A UNIQUE OLD WINDMILL IN PICTURESQUE FRANCE]
And while Madame Villard waited thus for little Jeanne, Suzanne Moreau
was bringing the baby to Paris.
On the tramp Suzanne had found the child a sweet and tender thing.
Little Jeanne had hardly ever cried. She was satisfied and sleepy, or
gurgling and gay.
Her life had been a rough one and her feedings irregular and sometimes
insufficient. Still the baby had seemed happy, and Suzanne had smiled a
great deal more than she had ever before smiled in her life.
Before the march was over, little Jeanne was the only child Suzanne had
ever kissed.
For a long time after reaching Paris, Suzanne Moreau's only thought was
to tend this baby for whom she had promised to care.
She expected to take the baby to the home where it belonged. But her
first thought was to give the child a few days' good care and food
before giving her up.
It was a thought which Suzanne would never have admitted was selfish.
But the truth was that little Jeanne's baby fingers had so tenderly
wound themselves about the heart of Suzanne Moreau that already the
thought of parting with her was unbearable. A few days passed. Then a
week, and then more days.
"I should. I should," sighed Suzanne, as she watched the little girl
sucking contentedly on her bottle.
Then when the bottle was emptied, Baby Jeanne lifted her two pink hands.
In her arms Suzanne rocked the baby back and forth and murmured, "No,
no, my little one, ma chérie (mä shĕr-ē´, which means "my dear" in
French), I cannot give you up. Not yet."
This went on for some time. At last one night Suzanne determined to go
to that address on the Avenue Champs Elysées. She went alone. She left
the child in the care of a woman with whom she boarded.
Before the tall stone building, Suzanne stood and marveled. It seemed a
palace to the little village dressmaker. How could she keep this child
from a home like that? To-morrow, yes, to-morrow, she would take Jeanne
to her rightful home.
As she turned to leave, a big motor car drew up at the curb, and a black
figure stepped out. Madame Villard had returned from another
unsuccessful search. She was returning to her daughter and to little
Margot, discouraged, disappointed, and heart-sick.
Little did she know that the slight figure turning the corner was
Suzanne Moreau. Little did she dream that this woman turning the
corner was hurrying back to her own grandchild, who slept in a poor
little Paris boarding house.
[Illustration: THE MARIE ANTOINETTE COTTAGE NEAR VERSAILLES PALACE]
Suzanne began to arrange the few little clothes she had bought for
Jeanne. She made a bundle. Then she took from her drawer the locket
which the child had worn about her neck. She opened it.
Paul's face seemed to be smiling at her. Often before she had opened
this locket, but never had the soldier face seemed so happy as now.
Suzanne knew why. It was because she was going to take Jeanne to her
place--her rightful home.
Her heart was fluttering and her hands were shaking as she put the
locket about the child's neck. Then she sat by the little cradle. Before
she knew it, the tears were falling down her cheeks.
Why did she care this way? Suzanne asked herself. She had lived alone
for many years. For many years she had had nothing to love. Why could
she not go on?
Why must this tiny bit of life, sleeping so sweetly before her, make all
this difference and make her cry?
Jeanne stirred. The little pink hands went up. It was a gesture Suzanne
had come to love, to wait for, to thrill at. Slowly she raised Jeanne
from the cradle and held her.
The baby's hands gently touched her cheeks. One little hand was patting
a wet, wet cheek.
Then it stopped, and a soft head slowly sank upon Suzanne's breast.
Jeanne was asleep.
Suzanne sat staring ahead of her. The baby had made a decision for
Suzanne.
Cruelly and unfairly, in her mind Suzanne blamed little Jeanne for the
decision she made that night. But her torn heart could not have stood
the blame. She knew and felt only one thing.
To the sleeping child she cried, "I cannot, cannot give you up, my
little Jeanne. Never, never!"
The locket with the soldier's picture was put away under lock and key.
And Madame Villard continued to wait for her grandchild.