WE GO
It was later in the day that Annette came flying in. “This dog, Lucie,”
she cried, “this dog of Victor’s, where is he? I wish much to see him.
Unlucky me not to be allowed to have him! Victor has told me, the good
Victor, how clever is this little dog, that he will stand upon his hind
legs when one bids him dance to a whistling, and that he will also sing
to an accompaniment. Is it so, or is this just nonsense? He is very
ready for a joke, this Victor.”
“Yes, he does those things,” Lucie assured her.
“The singing? It is hard to believe that.”
“If one may call it singing. It is not very melodious, though no doubt
it is the best he can do.”
“We must teach him new tricks to surprise Victor when he comes back.
I have never seen this Pom Pom, for you know he belonged to my cousin
Marguerite who lived in Bordeaux which is too far away for one to
visit, and Victor, though he has been here a number of times, has never
brought the dog with him.”
“We will go to see him if you like. Victor thought I would best tie
him for a day or two lest he try to find his way back to him, so he
is there in the garden. I will have him on a leash and let him run a
little. Come.”
Of course Annette went into raptures over the new pet, and was so
regretful at being deprived of him that Lucie consoled her by saying
she should have a share in him, although he must live with the Du
Boises rather than with Le Bruns. This arrangement quite satisfied
Annette who had felt herself defrauded of what naturally should have
come to her. So between them it certainly was not for lack of petting
and feeding that Pom Pom could feel himself abandoned, and, as a matter
of fact, in a few days he was entirely at home, ready to show off his
tricks and to attach himself devotedly to Lucie. To be sure he would
sometimes stand at the gate looking wistfully up and down the street,
regarding Lucie with questioning eyes when she came to him.
But no more did he or his mistress see Victor Guerin before bewildering
and evil days fell upon the town. First came troops marching through,
a thing of almost daily occurrence and a signal for the two little
girls to run out with flowers, fruit, or cakes of chocolate to give
to the soldiers, who would stick the flowers on the ends of their
bayonets and go off nibbling chocolate between cheers or snatches of
the Marseillaise.
It had become a thing of every day to see Grandfather Du Bois and
Grandfather Le Brun start off together to their factories, there
to remain all day. It was becoming customary, too, to behold women
doing men’s work and for the two little girls to apply themselves to
duties they had never known before. Still they were happy. No one much
believed in a protracted war. Those who shook their heads in doubt were
laughed at and called croaking ravens.
But one day came a message which compelled Madame Du Bois, pale and
shaken, to leave Lucie in charge of her grandfather and Paulette, for
the word was that Captain Du Bois was severely wounded and his wife
decided that nothing must keep her from going to him.
Lucie clung to her mother, choking back sobs and begging that she might
go, too. “Take me, mother. Please take me,” she cried, “I will be brave
and I can help, indeed I can.”
“But, dear child, it is not possible,” Madame Du Bois tried to
explain. “I do not know even if I may see him. I may not be allowed
that privilege. I shall keep as near him as I can and shall return if
he recovers,” she gave a quick sigh. “If it be that I must come back
without him you must have the courage to face the worst, and bear in
mind that it will be a hero for whom we mourn. Now, dear daughter, be
as helpful here as you can. Give as little trouble as possible. When
we keep busy there is less time for grieving. You must try to keep
grandpère and Paulette in good heart.”
These words encouraged Lucie to show a braver spirit. She no longer
wept, but stood looking very grave and thoughtful. “You will write,
mamma, very soon,” she said.
“Yes, yes, as soon as I can. As soon as it is possible I will send some
sort of message. It may be that I shall have difficulty in finding a
proper place to stay, but at the hospital I shall try to make myself so
useful that they will wish me to stay.”
So away she went, leaving Lucie waving farewells and trying to smile in
spite of tearful eyes. She remembered that she must not be a coward and
that she must keep busy so as to have no time for grieving.
“Paulette, Paulette,” she called as she reëntered the house. The old
servant had disappeared in order to hide her own emotions.
“Paulette, give me something to do, something very hard that will make
it necessary for me to keep my whole mind on it. I must have something
to do. It is so hard this parting.” She was biting her lip and giving
gasps between words.
“To be sure it is hard,” returned Paulette turning away her head. “Do I
not know, I, a mother?”
“It is not only that mamma goes, that alone would be a hard thing to
bear. She has never left me before, but papa, wounded, who knows how
badly, and if ever--if ever--” She broke down and was gathered up into
Paulette’s arms to sob out her sorrow on the good woman’s shoulder. She
had kept back the tears as long as she could; now they must overflow.
“There, there, my lamb,” Paulette patted her soothingly. “The good God
knows what is best. He does not willingly afflict. Yes, yes, weep all
you wish; it is better so. One must weep at times or go mad. To-morrow,
perhaps we shall have good news. We can be hopeful until we know. It is
best to hope.”
In a few minutes Lucie dried her eyes and tried to smile. “We must
think of grandfather, Paulette,” she said. “It is he one must first
consider. He will be coming home from the factory very soon and there
will be none but ourselves to greet him. He always went down that he
might walk home with papa, you remember, then it was mamma who was
always on hand to welcome him with a smile. I must train my mouth to
smile no matter how I feel; it was what mamma did. Somehow I must
always manage to have a smile for grandfather.”
“The poor old one,” sighed Paulette. “It is hard for him, his only son.
I know; I know. Yes, chérie, you must meet him with a courage. Compose
yourself. Go bathe the eyes, the flushed cheeks. Then we will make him
one of those omelettes he best likes, and you may go to gather the eggs
for it.”
“That is not a very difficult task but it is an interesting one,”
answered Lucie, trying to be cheerful. “I will take Pom Pom to help.
He adores to hunt for eggs. Poor Pom Pom, he has been so troubled to
see me in distress, and has been doing his best to ask me what is the
matter.”
“He is an animal most intelligent,” acknowledged Paulette. “Though for
me I prefer Mousse.”
“Ah, that is because Mousse prefers you,” declared Lucie.
“He is the older friend,” Paulette remarked as Lucie went off to her
room.
There were few traces of tears upon the little girl’s face when she
returned, and she gave Paulette a smile as she went out with Pom Pom to
hunt for eggs. “She is a marvel, that child,” murmured Paulette. “It
is not only for me who adore her to see that, but it is the same with
others, so brave, so cheerful. Hark, she sings of that Jeanne who is
cheerful all the day, like herself. Ah, my little heart, sing while you
can. There may come a day when you cannot.”
Determined not to look forward to trouble Lucie went on toward the hen
house, Pom Pom leaping and barking as he accompanied her. This was a
great game, for he could nose about in the hay and bark when he came
upon a nest. It was not always the right nest, but that did not matter;
it was just as amusing to him though it might not be to the hen who was
in possession and who would fly madly off squawking a protest.
In due time a sufficient number of eggs filled the little basket Lucie
carried. She might not participate in the preparation of the omelette,
for that must be made at exactly the right moment and be served at
once, but she could watch for her grandfather and be ready to greet him
in the manner of her mother. “Well, grandfather, how has gone the day?
Not badly, I hope. And you are not too tired. I will take your hat and
stick. The meal is almost ready, so come in and rest.”
He looked down at her keenly. She knew what he was thinking about and
opened her eyes very wide that he might see there were no tears in them.
He laid his hand gently on her head. “Dear daughter,” he murmured,
“dear daughter.”
She took his hat and stick and put them in their place, then took her
mother’s place at the table upon which Paulette was already setting
the plates of soup. Neither of the two was able to eat very heartily,
though they made a pretence of it and spoke at length of the excellence
of Paulette’s omelette, and each tried to hearten the other by making
foolish little jokes, but the meal was soon over, then although Lucie
was ready to help Paulette with the dishes she would have none of it,
but sent her off to keep her grandfather company.
It was not till almost dark that she found him sitting alone in the
twilight, his hands upon the arms of the big chair by a window of his
own room, his eyes fixed upon the eastern sky which reflected the
afterglow in soft tints of rose and purple. Lucie seated herself upon
his knee and his arms folded around her. Neither spoke but there was
silent comfort in this nearness. At last the old man put the child
gently from him. “I must see Antoine Le Brun,” he said. “Let us keep a
great hope in our hearts, my child. To-morrow we may hear. God grant it
to be good news.”
So he left her and Lucie went down to the kitchen to find Paulette
telling her beads, with Mousse drowsing on the window sill beside her
and Pom Pom curled up in a heap at her feet.
The next day came a hurried note from Madame Du Bois. She was making
but slow progress owing to the hard conditions everywhere, but she was
with friends, and she hoped to be able to continue her journey. They
must not be alarmed if they did not hear at once. She would write as
soon as opportunity afforded, and with this they were obliged to be
satisfied.
A day or two of quiet when Lucie tried to get used to the loneliness
and made a great effort to cheer up her grandfather. Between whiles
there was Annette, to be sure, and there was also Pom Pom who was a
ready pupil when the two girls attempted to teach him to bark when they
cried: “_Vive la France!_” and to hold a small flag in his mouth waving
it when they sang the Marseillaise. As for Mousse, he had reached the
point of tolerating the newcomer, but not an inch further would he go.
A proud disdain was the limit of what he felt he was called upon to
express.
“It is as much as we can expect of him,” declared Lucie: “Cats are
always more reserved than dogs, mamma says.”
Annette laughed. “How you are a funny one,” she said. “I could never
analyze an animal in that way.”
“O, do not flatter me by imagining it was my thought,” replied Lucie.
“It was mamma who said it. I think, Annette, that we must try to make a
true _poilu_ of Pom Pom. Perhaps in time we can persuade him to wear a
sword and cap.”
“But who will make them for him?”
“Victor, perhaps, can make the sword and we can make the cap. That
poor Victor will not have a very happy time in the trenches, I fear.
Grandfather says the modern fighting is most bewildering.”
“So says my grandfather. How those two talk and argue and fight their
old battles over.”
“Yes, when they are not talking about the factories. Over the top, Pom
Pom,” cried Lucie as she vainly tried to make the little dog jump over
a stick she held.
“He has no ambition to be a _poilu_,” declared Annette.
“But he must be, or we shall conscript him,” replied Lucie, at which
speech of course Annette laughed.
“Do you think it possible that the Germans will come to this place?”
asked Lucie after a silence during which Pom Pom was allowed his
freedom.
“I do not know,” returned Annette, “but I am afraid sometimes.”
“And I, too, when I go to bed with no papa, no mamma in the house and
wake up in the night feeling so alone.”
“I, too, have neither father nor mother.”
“But you have a grandmother which I have not.”
“Ah, but you have, over there in the United States.”
“Much good that does when there is an ocean between us.”
Their talk was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Lucie’s
grandfather with a stern and set expression upon his face. At the same
moment came an imperative call for Annette who scrambled over the wall
hastily. “We go,” announced Mons. Du Bois, “at once.” “O, grandfather
is it--is it papa?” quavered Lucie.
“No. The Germans are coming,” he replied curtly. “Go to your mother’s
room; gather together such valuables as you know she may wish to
secure, with any of your own, put them in a strong box and bring the
box to me at once. There is no time to lose.”
Without waiting for further orders Lucie flew to her mother’s room,
hurriedly gathered together pieces of jewelry, a couple of miniatures,
a packet of letters, a few laces. To these she added her own little
trinkets, crowding them all into a box which she brought down from
the attic and which, when filled, she carried to her grandfather. She
found him with Paulette in the garden. Both had spades with which
they were digging up the earth as rapidly as possible. A large box of
silver stood at one side, another of papers. Lucie set down the box she
carried. Her grandfather glanced up but continued his spading as he
gave further directions.
“Go now, and make a bundle of your clothing, no more than you can carry
easily. Take only serviceable things, nothing flimsy.”
Back went Lucie, wasted no time in collecting shoes, stockings, a pair
of each, a change of underwear, a couple of her stoutest frocks. She
gazed for a moment wistfully at the daintier, prettier things, ribbons,
sashes, the light summer hat, but forbore to put in anything more than
she had been told to do. She then put on her newest frock and with
the bundle under her arm went on downstairs, pausing to give but one
farewell look at her room.
Her grandfather and Paulette were throwing on the last spadefuls of
earth to cover up the spot where they had buried the valuables. Then
they tramped it down. Paulette craftily heaped dead branches, stripped
vines and odds and ends upon the place to make it look like a mere dump
heap.
Lucie followed her grandfather to the house. As they passed through
the kitchen she saw baskets filled with provisions. In the hall were
satchels and bags. She watched her grandfather take a bunch of keys
from his pocket, open a drawer in her father’s desk, and take therefrom
a bundle of papers which he stowed away inside his coat.
Presently Paulette came in laden with baskets and bundles.
“You have too much there, Paulette,” said Mons. Du Bois.
“Better throw them or give them away than leave them for the
_boches_,” she responded grimly.
“The chickens, Ninette the goat, Mousse, we cannot leave them,” cried
Lucie in distress.
“We must,” declared Paulette doggedly. “Mousse will be able to fend for
himself; he is a good mouser. The chickens,” she made a little dubious
sound. “Le bon Dieu knows what will become of them.”
“All our pretty hens, the beautiful big cocks, and poor Ninette. Is it
not possible that we can take them to some safe place?”
“Where?” asked Paulette sarcastically.
“I don’t know. O, I don’t know, but it seems so very dreadful.”
“They will not be here long,” replied Paulette gruesomely with a lift
of her eyebrows.
Lucie did not dare continue the subject with all the possibilities it
suggested, but she did say, “Pom Pom will go. He must. Nothing, no one,
shall persuade me to leave him behind.”
Her grandfather looked down doubtfully at the little dog crouched
at Lucie’s feet and gazing from one to the other with wistfully
questioning eyes.
“He can walk, you know,” Lucie went on beseechingly. “He will be no
trouble at all. I shall not need to carry him.”
“But to feed him.”
“He shall have a share of my food.”
“It is a long way, dear child, and we may want for food ourselves.”
“Where is it that we go?”
“To Paris if we can get there. It seems the best place, for there we
shall find friends and work to do.”
“And we walk all that distance?”
“Part of the way at least. The trains are not running to this town, for
many of the stations and much of the railroad is destroyed. Everything
is in confusion.”
Lucie looked from the window to see coming down the street a procession
of men, women, children, all sorts of vehicles, each laden with what
could be carried.
“The first consideration is to get away from here as quickly as
possible,” her grandfather went on. “Later we may be fortunate enough
to find some better means of travel than on foot, but now it is the
only means. Come.” He slung a strap over his shoulder, grasped his
stick and started toward the door. To the strap was secured a valise,
and he bore another in his hand. He did not cast one look behind, but
went on to the gate, Lucie following with Pom Pom at her heels. In the
rear came Paulette burdened with baskets, packages, bundles done up in
handkerchiefs. Over her head and shoulders she wore the little black
crocheted shawl which she was seldom without. She had on stout shoes,
a blue stuff skirt, a jacket and an apron with capacious pockets. From
her waist dangled a pair of headless fowls which she had not taken
time to dress. From her neck, hanging by a stout cord, was appended a
bottle of wine. One basket she carried on her head. From it protruded a
long loaf of bread.
“I will close the door, Paulette,” said Lucie, turning back.
Paulette was too weighed down by her impedimenta to give her accustomed
shrug, though she said. “What matter? Those boches will enter anyhow.”
Lucie felt a sudden sensation as of a clutch at her throat at this
remark and as she saw Mousse placidly washing his face where he sat on
the wall in the sunshine. “Adieu, adieu, my dear Mousse, dear home,
dear garden,” she whispered.
A little whimper from Pom Pom was followed almost immediately by an
ominous roar of guns. The enemy was coming nearer. At the crash of a
bomb exploding in a just deserted street the long line of refugees
hastened their steps.
Just ahead Lucie saw Annette with her grandfather who was helping along
the feeble steps of his wife toward a ramshackle carriage which stood
waiting for them. Everything in the way of a vehicle had been pressed
into service. A woman was pushing a perambulator whose occupant,
a little six months old baby, was almost hidden by the goods and
chattels packed about him. Mothers hurried the tripping steps of their
children. Old men hobbled haltingly. One decrepit old soul trundled in
a wheelbarrow her more decrepit old husband. Pigs, cows, sheep, geese,
turkeys had part in the procession. Little children hugged pet chickens
or rabbits. Some had birds in cages; others clung fast to a favorite
doll or a wooden horse.
The roar of the guns sounded more and more threatening. Fires flared
up. There was the noise of crashing walls as the company moved on,
on, down the road toward safety, leaving home and all its beloved
associations behind them.