MORE WAYS THAN ONE
The rescue of the donkey was not quite so easy a task as it looked to
be, but the two young people went at it heartily, Victor removing the
heavier stones and timbers which blocked the way, and Lucie undertaking
the smaller pieces. Master Donkey, whom Victor dubbed “Long Ears” for
want of a better name, meanwhile looked on attentively, his ears moving
in accord with his interest.
At last after an hour of rather exhausting labor, Victor exclaimed:
“There, Lucie, I think I can climb over now and get at Long Ears.
Donkeys are more sure-footed than horses and he can mount this pile of
stuff and pick his way along without doubt. You might stand there and
entice him with a handful of fresh grass.”
Lucie hunted around for such green stuff as she could collect from
crevices and corners, while Victor led forth the prisoner.
“Now he must have some food and drink,” declared Victor. “He must stand
in great need of it, poor fellow, and while he is partaking we will get
that wheel.”
“Where is it?” asked Lucie.
Victor laughed. “Ah, that is the joke of it. I haven’t an idea where
it is. I simply have faith to believe there is one; there must be. Who
ever saw a town that did not contain at least one discarded cart wheel
in the out-of-the-way corner of some stable-yard, or some such place? I
shall prowl around until I find it; that is all. Do you want to prowl,
too?”
Lucie declared herself eager to go with him on this quest, and they
started out, making inquiries as they went along and at last coming
upon the very odd corner that Victor had prophesied and where they
found the cart wheel of their desire. It was rather a dubious looking
affair, and its circumference was slightly less than those on the cart
which Victor had secured, but he declared it would serve, and, with the
help of an old man, managed to fasten it in place. Then they started
off for the cow shed in high good humor.
“It does not go badly, this cart,” maintained Victor, “and as for our
friend. Long Ears, he is none the worse for having served his time in
prison.”
“Ah, do not speak of him in that way,” chided Lucie. “It is as if he
had been a criminal.”
“He may be, who knows what evil deeds he may have done in his lifetime.”
But Lucie would none of this, and so they argued and made merry
upon that same road over which Lucie had traveled so wearily and
despairingly a few hours before.
They found everything intact at the shed. Victor lifted baskets and
bundles into the cart. “Now we will hunt for those eggs,” he said, “and
we may as well take the hen, too. Some one can make use of her, and she
will find it hard to scratch for a living here.”
“The eggs first. I am so very curious about those eggs, Victor. To
think that after all I shall find them.”
“Shall I climb up, or do you want to see for yourself?”
“I would very much like to see for myself.”
“Then you shall do so. I will lift you up so you can see.”
Lucie looked rather doubtful at this. She was not sure that she would
approve of this way to discovery. “Suppose you should let me fall, or
at least hold me so unsteadily that I should let the eggs fall.”
Victor took her objections good-naturedly. “Then shall I climb up?”
“Ye-es, I suppose you will have to,” admitted Lucie.
“I have it,” cried Victor wanting to indulge her. “I can back the cart
into the shed. There is plenty of room, and you can stand on that and
be perfectly sure of your footing.”
“Oh, Victor, what a perfectly lovely idea,” cried Lucie. And in a few
minutes the cart was standing beneath the shelf while Lucie climbed
upon it. She laughed down at Victor. “It cannot be said that one’s
footing is so very sure after all, for the cart is so rickety.”
“I think it will hold out. I will stand by Long Ears so he will not
bolt at a critical moment.”
Feeling herself doubly safe Lucie turned to view the shelf and what was
thereon. But the instant the head appeared above the top came again a
wild flutter of wings, and a second squawking hen, disturbed in her
retreat, flew in an agony of fright down from her nest and directly
upon the back of the donkey. Victor made a grab at her as she went
sailing by in a second flight, and Master Long Ears no longer feeling a
detaining hand, kicked up his heels and went clattering out the door,
bearing Lucie frantically trying to keep her feet and to get hold of
the reins.
Fortunately the donkey once outside stopped at sight of green fields
and began deliberately to crop the grass. Lucie collapsed in a fit of
mirth upon the floor of the cart. Victor came running out, at first
alarmed, and then ready to join in her laughter.
“It is not meant that I should get at those eggs,” declared Lucie. “You
will have to get them, Victor.”
[Illustration: Monsieur was wounded, night came, no one knew that he
lay there, there were so many. The little dog knew and he went out to
find him.]
“But what a remarkable hen,” remarked Victor, “to lay two eggs in a
day.”
Lucie went off again into another burst of laughter. “But, no,”
she cried, “it was not the same hen. That other was brown; this is
speckled. There are then two of them.”
“_Ma foi!_” cried Victor, “one does not have to go far for a joke even
in these days.”
He returned to the shed, climbed up to the shelf, and presently
reappeared with his pockets bulging. “My first foraging expedition,”
he announced, “and here are the fruits, a half dozen eggs. We will
commandeer these, a reserve for future use. We may be glad enough
of them on our way. As for those hens they will have to fend for
themselves, for there is no time to hunt them.” He deposited the eggs
in one of the baskets, they climbed back again into the cart, undertook
the task of persuading Long Ears to leave his pastures new, and finally
they were on their way back to the town, arriving without mishap; then,
with the consent of such authority as still existed, they set forth on
the more precarious expedition to the next station.
Victor realized that time was short and it would be a close shave for
him, for he must get back to camp at the proper hour. He had promised
to return the borrowed cart and donkey, but in doing this, he resolved
that he must let the future take care of itself. If he could not
return the borrowed articles in person, some one else could, and that
was all there was to it.
They began the second stage of their journey quite confidently. Life
again appeared worth living. Lucie sat by Victor’s side on the length
of board which served as a seat. Paulette, perched on a similar
board, was surrounded by baskets and bundles. She held firmly to her
green cotton umbrella from which she had not parted in all this time.
Sometimes she used it as a staff, sometimes it was laid across her
shoulders on the top of a pack she carried, again it found a place
on the top of a basket, but wherever it was Paulette evidently did
not mean to lose sight of it. Having renewed his strength the donkey
trotted along bravely enough, but the cart was less satisfactory. The
wheels spread apart in a manner that threatened collapse at any moment,
while the added fourth caused a queer joggle, a sort of limp, as it
were.
“It may not be the most luxurious way of riding,” observed Victor, “but
if we get there it will suffice.”
“Oh, Victor, do you think there is any danger of our not getting
there?” inquired Lucie in alarm.
Victor glanced down at the wavering wheel. “It will be good luck if we
do,” he replied, then seeing Lucie’s look of dismay he added: “but the
donkey is very strong; we can pile the luggage on him, then you and
Paulette can take turns in riding whatever portion of the road we still
have to travel.”
There was some comfort in this, and perhaps it was as well that Lucie
was warned, for at last after a threatening squeak, and a more than
ordinarily violent wabble, off came the wheel and went careering down
a gully at the side of the road. The cart gave a lurch, but Victor was
quick to spring out, and ran to the head of Long Ears who seemed to
have it in his mind either to bolt or to kick out with his hind legs.
He decided upon a mild performance of the latter feat, but his heels
could do little damage to the already decrepit cart, and under Victor’s
management he soon calmed down and stood meekly while he was being
unharnessed.
“Nobody hurt,” announced Victor cheerfully, “and we have not so very
far to go. I think we can manage it. Come, Paulette, let us have those
baskets. We can strap them on Long Ears pannier-wise, and we can make a
pillion of the contents of those bundles, or at least of part. We can
lay those on his back first and the straps which we can make of the
reins will hold them on.”
Paulette was quite used to a peasant manner of traveling, and lent a
hand skillfully, refusing absolutely to be the first to ride, so to
Lucie was given this honor.
Leaving the cart abandoned by the roadside they set off again, Lucie
sitting easily upon her improvised saddle and rather enjoying the
novelty. Victor walked by her side, declaring that one could not tell
what tricks a donkey might suddenly develop and it was well that one
should be on hand. At last Lucie declared that it was Paulette’s turn
to ride, and though at first she protested violently, the old woman
finally was persuaded that Lucie would be made uncomfortable if she
continued to refuse, so she mounted Long Ears and in this way the
little company at last arrived at their destination.
“Now,” said Victor, “the first thing is to discover Mons. Du Bois. If
he be here I can leave you in safety.”
“And if he is not here?” said Lucie with some trepidation.
Victor looked troubled. “I am afraid I shall have to leave you in any
case,” he answered slowly.
“O, Victor,” cried Lucie, “how can we get along without you?”
“Do you want him to be shot as a deserter?” asked Paulette severely.
“He must get back to his regiment, and he has none too much time as it
is.”
“Oh!” Lucie looked distressed. “I did not think, but--” She looked
questioningly at Paulette.
“Do not distress yourself, my child,” returned Paulette imperturbably.
“We shall get on. Monsieur, I beg that you will not embarrass yourself
further. We are not the only women who must travel alone, and I have
not a fear.”
“I trust to you, Paulette,” said Victor heartily. “You remain here. I
shall not be gone long.”
Paulette dismounted from her steed and led him to one side where they
would be less conspicuous. Lucie placed herself in a position to watch
the street down which Victor had gone, and which led to the railway
station. It was there that he intended first to go. He was as good as
his word, for presently Lucie cried: “Here he comes, Paulette, and
there is some one with him? If it should but be grandfather!”
Paulette looked searchingly at the two approaching figures. “But that
it is not,” she declared. “That is neither the form nor the gait of
Mons. Du Bois.”
Lucie drew a long sigh. “I did so hope,” she murmured.
In a few minutes Victor came up with a stout, middle-aged man. “This is
Mons. Carriere,” he announced. “He will do all in his power to locate
Mons. Du Bois. As for me, I find I must take a train in a few minutes,
but I am glad to leave you in safe hands.”
“How can I thank you for all you have done,” said Lucie, with a look of
regret in her eyes. “I wish you need not go, Victor, but I should like
less your having to be shot.”
Mons. Carriere looked inquiringly at Paulette.
“Mademoiselle means that monsieur must return to his regiment,” she
explained. “If you will believe it, monsieur has spent his entire leave
in transforming himself into an escort for us.”
“It is incredible,” exclaimed Mons. Carriere, turning to look at Victor.
“But, I assure you, monsieur, it was my duty,” declared Victor. “Are we
not in this war as much to protect our women as our land?”
“Well said, brave _garçon_,” cried Mons. Carriere, “but let me suggest,
monsieur, that if you wish to make that train, your opportunity is very
short.”
With that Victor grasped Lucie’s hands, kissed her upon either cheek,
did the same to Paulette and was off at a run for the station. Lucie
ran a short way the better to see the last of him, and stood where she
could have a view of the train already to be heard approaching.
Paulette wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “He is pure gold,
that lad,” she said brokenly to Mons. Carriere. “Such courage, such
cheerfulness, such invention! When I think that he may be fodder for
cannon I cannot endure it.”
“It is such as he will save France,” returned Mons. Carriere. “We must
be willing to let them go, to die, perhaps, for their country. Death is
not the end.”
“You perhaps have no son to sacrifice,” returned Paulette.
“I have three,” replied he quietly, “and you, madame?”
“I have one and one only. He is a _poilu_ like yonder lad.”
“But you do not weep that he gives himself for his country?”
“I weep in secret, but also I am proud that he was one of the first to
go.”
The train was now moving out of the station. Paulette turned her back
upon it, but Lucie stood waving farewells to Victor, who in response
waved his adieux.
As Lucie came up Paulette wiped her eyes, turning to Mons. Carriere to
say hastily: “Do not let us mention Monsieur Victor, if you please.”
“He has gone, Paulette,” cried Lucie. “Is he not fine and brave? Ah me,
I wish--”
“_Cela ne fait rien_,” Paulette interrupted with a shrug of her
shoulders. “The next thing is to find Mons. Du Bois. What is gone is
gone.”
“Do you think it possible that my grandfather is here?” Lucie asked
Mons. Carriere.
“It is very possible. This young _poilu_, who has just left, charged me
to take you to a safe place, to house the donkey and to return it to
one Jacques La Rue when opportunity came. _Allons_, then, to my house
we go and then proceed to investigate. You are able to walk, madame? By
the way, have you been hurt that your head is bound up in such fashion?”
“She has shed her blood for France,” cried Lucie. “That wound was
caused by the enemy.”
“_Ma foi_, what a fantasie!” cried Paulette. “I assure you, monsieur,
that my hurt was caused simply by a falling wall. I was passing; the
wall gives way, the brick descends upon my head; that is all.”
“Ah, but the falling wall, that came from the bombs of the enemy,”
persisted Lucie. “Is it not, monsieur, that she has suffered for
France?”
“Most surely,” he answered. “She has been wounded, though indirectly,
by the enemy, and so is to be honored as a soldier.”
“There,” exclaimed Lucie, “it is as I said, Paulette.”
“La la,” she responded, “this sort of argument is a thing to make one
laugh, and quite aside from our business. Where is it we go, monsieur,
without wasting more words or time?”
“We go to my house where you rest until I have completed my quest for
Mons. Du Bois. If I do not discover him, then we will see what can be
done about your pursuing your journey to Paris. Meanwhile you have
nothing to do but make yourselves comfortable. My housekeeper will see
to that, I assure you.”
“But, monsieur,” Paulette began protesting.
He lifted his hand to silence her. “It is nothing. In these days one
takes what comes and says no word.”
They followed him up the street, turned a corner and halted before a
house which reminded Lucie of her own home. A green gate set in a white
wall led, probably, into just such another garden as she had left so
regretfully. It was through this gate that they entered, and, true to
Lucie’s expectations, the garden was there, holding the familiar trees
and flowers which spoke to her of home. Her lips trembled and her eyes
filled with tears. She stole a glance at Paulette whose face had a
wooden expression. She was looking neither to the right nor left.
“Marianne,” called Mons. Carriere.
A stout, middle-aged woman came to a side door.
“We have guests,” announced Mons. Carriere. “See that they have
everything to make them comfortable. They have passed through grievous
scenes, Marianne. They are victims of the war. This good woman, you
see, has been wounded, and mademoiselle here has become separated from
her parents, has passed the night alone in a cow shed in the very track
of the enemy.”
“_Mon Dieu!_” cried Marianne, hurrying down the steps. “Certainly,
monsieur, they shall of the best. I, myself, will see that they are
cared for. Enter, madame. Enter, mademoiselle. I am honored.”
They passed into the house, where Marianne bustled about in great
excitement and presently a plentiful meal was set before them to
which Mons. Carriere left them while he went forth upon his errand of
inquiry. It was not long before Paulette and Marianne were chattering
together like old friends, their conversation interspersed with many
pious ejaculations, and on Marianne’s part with many expressions of
astonishment. Soon tiring of their talk Lucie stole out into the
garden, finding it upon closer investigation very like, yet unlike, her
own. There was no stone bench. There was no cherry tree overhanging
the wall over which she might see Annette’s face appear. She wondered
what Annette was doing. This recalled Pom Pom, whose achievements had
been made the subject of some of Paulette’s recital. She wondered where
he was. In the excitement of her parting from Victor, and in reaching
this haven of rest, she had not thought of much except the possibility
of soon seeing her grandfather, forgetting for the moment all about
the little dog. The last she had seen of him he was at the station at
Victor’s heels.
Starting up from her seat in alarm she was about to reënter the house
when she heard at the gate a little whining sound, then a quick sharp
bark. “Pom Pom,” she called, “is it then you?”
A joyful bark answered. She ran to the gate, admitting the little
creature, who jumped upon her in wild delight. “I wonder where you
have been,” said Lucie, gathering him up in her arms. Pom Pom tried
to explain in dog language, but Lucie did not understand that he was
trying to tell her of his adventures, and that he had followed for some
distance a rapidly moving something which was bearing away his beloved
master, that finding he could not overtake this galloping monster he
had returned to the station, nosed about till he caught the right scent
and so had traced his second best beloved to this present spot.
“I suppose you are hungry,” remarked Lucie.
Pom Pom quite understood this and answered accordingly. His answer
brought Marianne to the door. “Is it this so wonderful dog you have
there?” she asked. “He shall have food of the best. If he prefers,
mademoiselle, he shall have it there in the garden. I will bring it to
him.”
She went off, soon returning with a dish of meaty scraps and a pan of
milk upon which Pom Pom set to work without delay, finishing up by
licking both pan and dish. Then he lay down contentedly at Lucie’s feet.
She had settled herself comfortably in a high-backed rustic chair which
stood invitingly in the shade. It was a delightful resting place. The
flitting of birds, the hum of bees, the odor of flowers, gave her a
homelike feeling. She was very tired, she realized, for she had endured
a rough journey, and her sleep of the night before had been none too
sweet. It was a kind Providence which had led her into such a spot as
this, yet, she reflected, it was all of Victor’s doing. Grandfather,
where was he? When would she hear from her parents? What of Annette?
These and other wandering questions passed through her mind, becoming
more and more vague till finally both little dog and little girl were
sound asleep.