THE FIRST BREAK
“Mousse! Mousse! Where is Mousse?” Lucie began calling her pet cat as
she ran from kitchen to dining-room to library. At the door of the
last named room she stopped short to look around upon the little group
gathered there. “Such serious faces, all of you,” she exclaimed. “What
is it? Mamma, papa, grandfather, you look as if you had lost your last
friends.” She perched upon her grandfather’s knee and began pulling his
moustache so as to make the corners of his mouth turn up. “Smile, _cher
grandpère_,” she said.
He took her hands gently away and held them in his. “It is a time to
be serious, my child,” he said. “One cannot smile when there is war to
face. I who remember 1870 cannot smile now.”
“War? Not for us, not France. What has she done?” Lucie looked around
incredulously.
“She has done nothing but be her true self,” said her grandfather
shaking his head sadly.
“But it is not near, this war. It will not touch us here in our home.”
“Alas, it is very near. The Germans have invaded Belgium, and are
marching on to Paris where, they boast, they will eat their Christmas
dinner.”
“Oh but,” Lucie began, looking toward her father, whose face wore a
stern, set look. “Papa,” she cried springing up and throwing herself
into his arms, “you are going! It is this that makes you all look so.
You are going to the war, to be a soldier. O, papa!”
He stroked her hair softly. “Yes, little one, I am going as all good
Frenchmen will go. We are not ready, we of France, but we shall do our
best. For this hour Germany has been preparing for forty years. She is
the one country which desires and is ready for war. The rest of us have
been taken unawares but--” He shrugged his shoulders.
“And is it soon, at once, that you must go?” Lucie asked tremulously.
“At once. There is no time to lose. You must be brave, little one, and
cheer mamma. You are a daughter of France, remember, and her women do
not quail before danger. You will remember that and be brave always,
always, no matter what comes?” He took her face between his hands and
kissed her on each cheek.
Lucie winked back the tears and, though her voice quavered, she
answered: “I will be brave, always, always, papa. I will remember.”
“That is my dear daughter. Try to help all you can. There will be much
to be done and you must do your part.”
Lucie looked across the room. “But grandfather is not going,” she said.
He lifted his head with a sudden, proud gesture. “Not yet, my pigeon,
but if I am called I shall answer in spite of that old wound the
Prussians gave me nearly fifty years ago.”
“And Jean, does Paulette’s Jean go?” Lucie continued her questions.
“Oh, yes, Jean must go,” her father told her. “He has enlisted already
in my company.”
“Poor Paulette!” Lucie looked grave. She realized that it was indeed no
time to make merry.
And in the days which followed she realized this still more. Her mother
went about with a faraway look in her eyes. Paulette was grimmer and
more silent. Grandfather Du Bois talked much with his neighbor, Mons.
Le Brun, of that other war in which both had taken part. Lucie caught
such sentences as: “They shall not pass. Never again shall it be,
never, never,” spoken fiercely. Then there would be long silences as
the two old men sat under the trees in the peaceful garden.
It was with contradictory emotions that the little girl saw her father
march away with Jean, Pierre, Louis and François, youths of the town
whom she had always known. They were all singing the Marseillaise.
Lucie was thrilled as she heard them. Her grandfather and Mons. Le
Brun stood stiffly saluting the flag as it passed. Madame Du Bois made
a sweeping curtsy. Paulette followed her example, and, in her turn so
did Lucie. Her heart beat high as she saw her father in his captain’s
uniform leading his men. There were many others on the street waving
handkerchiefs and crying “_Au revoir_.” Old men and boys were shouting
“_Vive la France!_” or “_Brave garçons!_” As the rat-a-tat of the drums
and the singing died away, and the floating flag became a mere speck,
Lucie felt that she could not keep back her tears. She glanced at her
mother, on whose face was a strange, exalted look. Lucie grasped her
mother’s hand. It was as cold as ice, but she held Lucie’s tightly
and smiled down at her. A few of the women were weeping though they
continued to cheer mechanically as the tears coursed down their cheeks.
Madame Du Bois’s eyes were tearless, and Lucie, who felt the moisture
must overflow in her own eyes, choked back the lump in her throat and
smiled into the face above her.
“They will come back victorious,” exclaimed her grandfather bravely.
“If they come back at all,” remarked Paulette dejectedly.
Thereupon the lump in Lucie’s throat grew bigger and forced from her
eyes the tears which she had been striving to keep back.
She broke from her mother, rushed into the house and up, up into the
farthest corner of the attic where she could have out her cry without
being seen. Her father! Her beloved father gone, gone! She might never
see him again on earth. She could not bear to think of it! In the
excitement of the past few days, in the glamour of beholding uniforms,
hearing drums beating and seeing flags flying she had scarcely realized
that he was going into dangers, but now that part was done with, that
exciting part which had buoyed her up, and ahead were only days of
waiting and of anxiety.
The sobs grew less and less, however, as she remembered her promise
to be brave. She repeated it over and over again: “I will be brave,
always, always. I will, papa.” She wiped her eyes and gazed seriously
out of the small window by which she sat. The pigeons were strutting
over the red-tiled roof, making their queer cooing sounds. Down in the
garden, walking back and forth, back and forth, she saw her grandfather
slowly pacing.
Presently something soft and furry rubbed against her knee. “You,
Mousse!” she cried. “You have searched me out. What a cat indeed!
How did you know where to find me?” She gathered the little purring
creature into her arms, gently stroked his head till he settled down
in her lap; then she sat there very still for some time, thinking,
thinking, until looking down into the garden she saw Paulette come out
with two buckets and go toward the well.
“The poor Paulette,” exclaimed Lucie, “she will now have to do Jean’s
work since he is no longer here. Behold grandfather! he has taken a
bucket. He is helping her. What a thing indeed! I, too, should help;
it is what I promised papa I would do. I had forgotten all that might
happen with Jean gone, that Paulette would have double work unless we
others should do some of it. Come, Mousse, we must go down.”
She carried the small creature with her down to the garden, calling as
she went: “What can I do? What can I do? Paulette, is there nothing I
can do to help?”
“To be sure there is something,” replied Paulette, setting down her
bucket, a smile relaxing the gravity of her face. “You can feed the
fowls.”
“Truly I can,” replied Lucie. “I know where their food is. Come with me
to feed the fowls,” she said to her grandfather who was setting down
the second bucket.
“And do you think I have nothing better to do than help you feed the
fowls?” he asked, smiling at her indulgently.
“No doubt you have, but it will not take long, and it is so much more
entertaining when one has a companion to whom one can say: ‘Is not the
speckled hen greedy?’ or, ‘What a coward is the red rooster!’”
“To-day then it is allowed that you make those remarks to me, but after
this--” He shook his head.
“After this why can you not?”
“Because, my child, I take my son’s place at the factory, as must many
an old man do.”
Lucie looked thoughtfully across at the neighboring garden. “Mons. Le
Brun will not have to change his habits, but that other grandfather of
Annette’s must do so, I suppose, for her uncles and cousins will go to
the war, no doubt.”
Her grandfather drew a quick sigh. “Yes, all of us can do our part in
one way or another. Well, in my case it is not as if I were without
experience. Come, let us go to those fowls, and then something else.
One must not be an idler these days.”
The two went to the little shed at the back of the garden where they
found the grain to scatter for the waiting fowls. The pigeons, too
must have their share. These were so tame that they perched on Lucie’s
shoulder, ate from her hands, sat upon her arm when she held it
out. All the time she chattered away, sometimes to her grandfather,
sometimes to the creatures about her.
The air was sweet and fresh coming from across gardens. Even the
smoking factories could not overcome the odors of blossoming plants,
while the clatter of machinery was less in evidence than the laughter
of children, the rippling talk of young girls, the shouts of boys. This
evening, however, there was less of laughter than usual. From so many
of the houses had gone forth a father, a son, a brother, a husband to
the war, and anxious foreboding filled the hearts of the older people.
Lucie carried the empty basin into the house, leaving her grandfather
with head thoughtfully bent and hands behind him to resume his pacing
of the garden walk. Madame Du Bois was busy in the house taking upon
herself some of those duties which were generally Paulette’s.
“But, mamma,” said Lucie, seeing her in the dining-room, “I can set the
table.”
“So you can to-morrow,” said her mother, “but now I have done it, and
there is nothing further to add to it.”
Lucie viewed it critically. “I can gather some fresh flowers,” she
offered.
Her mother made no answer.
Lucie looked over her shoulder as she went out. “One must have courage,
mamma, so I will gather the very gayest and brightest blossoms to cheer
us up.”
She continued her way into the garden and was gravely contemplating
roses and gillyflowers when she heard some one whistling a joyous air.
For a moment she thought it was Jean, then she remembered that there
was no more a Jean to be whistling and singing about the premises. She
discovered, too, that the sound came from the other side of the wall.
It was not Annette who was there. Annette never whistled. Presently the
whistling ceased. Lucie began to arrange her bouquet, but before it
was half completed she was aware of a pair of eyes fixed upon her, and
looking up she saw above the wall a merry face smiling down at her.
“Victor!” she cried. “Where did you come from?”
“Tell me first,” returned the lad, “where is my cousin Annette.”
“That I do not know. Isn’t she in the house?”
“Would I be seeking her in the garden if she were?” laughed Victor.
“No, my dear Lucie, she is neither within nor without the mansion of
the Le Bruns so far as I can ascertain. I have brought something for
her, but since she is not here, and Madame the grandmother objects to
this gift, I must take it back or bestow it elsewhere.”
“O, Victor, what is this gift to which Madame Le Brun objects?”
“La la, I have aroused your curiosity, have I?”
“Well, you see,” Lucie began bunching the flowers she held, “you see I
am interested in a gift for Annette, who is my dearest friend.”
“My cousin Annette is to be congratulated, mademoiselle,” returned
Victor with a twinkle in his eye. “Very well, then, give me a rose and
I will show you the gift, a fine rose, mind.”
“Red or white?”
“Neither; one of those delicate pink ones like your cheeks.”
Lucie ignored the flattery, and held up a rose which Victor regarded
critically. “Too full blown,” he declared. “It will fade before
morning.”
“I will gather one from the bush, one between a rose and a bud.”
“As you yourself are.”
Lucie made a little face at him. “How you are silly, Victor. You speak
as if to a young lady.”
“Well, you will be, give you time, and I may not be here then to make
pretty speeches. I am but taking time by the forelock.”
Lucie paid no attention to the cryptic speech but gave a serious regard
to the rosebush from which she should select the proper flower, at last
deciding upon one of just the exact maturity to suit the fastidious
taste of Victor. He nodded approvingly as he took it and stuck it in
his buttonhole. “I shall wear it as an amulet,” he told her.
“Foolish boy,” replied Lucie disdainfully.
“Perhaps you think I shall need nothing to protect me from danger. I
assure you I shall. Perhaps your rose may ward off German bullets.”
“Bullets?”
“Why not? A soldier must consider bullets.”
“A soldier?”
Victor nodded. “It seems that you are not very original, mademoiselle.
You do nothing but repeat my words like a parrot.”
“But these surprises. You are too young. Surely, Victor, you are not
thinking of going to the war.”
“And why not? I shall become eighteen next month. I am but waiting that
day. I have had considerable military training. _Aux armes, citoyens!_”
He sang in a fine clear voice. “Shall I not fly to the aid of our
beloved France as well as another? I am no coward, I tell you, Lucie Du
Bois down there among your flowers.”
“Of course not. No one would believe that, but you must admit that you
are young.”
“So much the better. I decided at once that I should lose no time,
therefore I have been making ready. To-day I came to make my adieux to
my cousins and my friends here. In passing I will say that I also had
in mind the gift for my young cousin, that gift which her grandmother
will not permit her to accept. Madame Le Brun declares it shall not
have house-room nor even out-of-house-room.”
“It must be a queer sort of gift.”
“Not so queer. Wait, I will show you. Stand where you are and you shall
behold.” He scrambled down the other side of the wall while Lucie
stood expectantly. Presently above the wall appeared first a pair of
ears, then two bright eyes, then the entire head of a very alert and
inquisitive little dog, which looked around interestedly.
“O, Victor,” exclaimed Lucie, “what a darling!”
“Speak, Pom Pom,” said Victor over the wall, and a quick sharp bark
from Pom Pom replied.
Victor’s head again appeared above the vines. He took the little dog
under his arm.
“And you are going to give Annette that adorable little dog,” said
Lucie.
“I was going to give it to her, but now I am not permitted to do so.”
“Then shall you take it to camp as a mascot?”
“I thought of doing that, but I do not wish him killed nor left without
a master. You see, he belonged to my sister who died two years ago. She
charged me to see that he was always well cared for, and who can tell
what would happen to him in a camp?”
“He is certainly a darling,” repeated Lucie, standing on tiptoe that
her fingers might touch the cold nose of the little dog who licked her
fingers daintily. “See, Victor, he makes friends with me at once.”
“Would you like to have him?” asked Victor suddenly.
“O, Victor, I would, I truly would.”
“Then he is yours.”
“O, but--”
“Your mother will permit?”
“I think so. I am sure she will.”
“Yet we would better ask.”
Paying no heed to the flowers she had dropped in her effort to reach
the dog, Lucie turned to run back to her mother. “Mamma, Mamma,” she
cried as she burst into the room, “that Victor is there with a dog, so
darling a dog as you never saw, so affectionate, so intelligent, and
this dog is mine if you give me permission to keep him.”
“But why you, my daughter?” asked her mother.
“Because, you see, it is this way. It is Victor Guerin, of course you
know, Annette’s cousin who comes so often. Very well, he brings this
dog to Annette. She is not at home, has gone who knows where, and her
grandmother, who does not like dogs, refuses to allow Victor to leave
this precious little creature.”
“But why does Victor wish to give it away?”
“O, I forgot to say that it is because next month he becomes eighteen
and then he can enlist in the army.”
“That lad?”
“He is young, is he not? Still there are others as young and he is mad
to go. This dog, you see, belonged to his sister who died, and he wants
to place it where it will have good care.”
“I see. Very well, you may take it on one condition, that after the war
you will give it again to Victor if he wishes it.”
“Yes, yes, mamma, I will.”
“But what of Mousse?”
“O, Mousse!” Lucie looked uncertain. “I will ask Victor to help me to
make those two to become friends. On his part he can charge Pom Pom not
to hurt Mousse and I will make Mousse understand. He may not at once,
but he will in time. I will go now to bring Pom Pom to show you.”
She flew to the garden to see Victor astride the wall holding the
little dog.
“Mamma consents, Victor,” cried Lucie as soon as she was within
hearing, “but there is this condition: that if you want him when you
return from the war I am to give him back to you.”
“That is good,” returned Victor. “I confess, Lucie, that I am very fond
of the little creature and I shall go off with better heart for knowing
he is in good hands.” He climbed down from the wall, lifted down Pom
Pom and placed him in Lucie’s arm. “This is your new mistress. Pom
Pom,” he said, “you must be a good dog and mind her.”
Pom Pom looked questioningly from one to the other, whining a little
but accepting the situation, for he did not attempt to leave Lucie’s
arms.
“Come with me,” begged Lucie, “and help me to make peace with Mousse.
Pom Pom will not hurt him, you think?”
“Not if I tell him he must not. He is very obedient.”
Lucie looked a little troubled. “I wish I could say the same of Mousse,
still he is most intelligent and I do not believe he will mind very
much. He is really fonder of Paulette than of me, so I don’t believe he
will be very jealous.” She looked down lovingly and stroked the dog’s
soft head, Victor regarding them both soberly.
“Shall I bring your flowers?” asked Victor presently. “You have dropped
them all.”
“O, yes, please do. I forgot all about them in thinking of Pom Pom,”
responded Lucie.
He gathered up the scattered blossoms and followed her along the path
to the house.