A STRANGE GARRET
The shadows had grown very long and the sunset light in the western sky
had faded to a twilight hue when Lucie was suddenly awakened by a sharp
bark from Pom Pom. She sat up expecting to see a more familiar face
than that of Mons. Carriere who bent over her. Pom Pom, as protector,
was protesting against the too near approach of any one save a member
of the family. As soon as Lucie came to a realizing sense of where she
was, she sprang up asking eagerly: “My grandfather? Have you found him?”
“Alas, no, my child,” was the disappointing reply. “It seems that he
has not reached this town as yet.”
“But what--where is he then?”
Mons. Carriere hesitated. “That one cannot tell at once. In these
times a thousand things might happen. He may have been turned aside
on account of danger from the guns. He may have taken another road, a
longer, though perhaps better. It will do no harm to wait a little.
Give him time. You are more than welcome to remain as my guest. Content
yourself, my child. If, after a reasonable time, he does not come,
then we will see what next.”
“But monsieur--” Lucie began to protest.
“La la, there is nothing to say, not a word. Let us go in and see what
that Marianne has for us.”
There was indeed nothing to do but to accept the hospitality so readily
offered, so Lucie went in, but though her host did his best to make her
feel at ease and to declare himself fortunate in having the opportunity
of entertaining a guest at table, Lucie felt too troubled to enjoy her
meal very much, though she realized that Fate had been kinder to her
than to most refugees. She made an effort to appear cheerful, but her
wistful smile went to Mons. Carriere’s heart, and made him even more
fatherly in his manner toward her.
He left her to Paulette when the meal was over, and then these two
conferred together.
“I am troubled, so troubled, Paulette,” said Lucie. “I am most
unfortunate. My father wounded, my mother lost, my grandfather who
knows where?”
“Take heart, my child, it is not so bad as it appears,” Paulette made
the effort to console her. “It is much better than yesterday when your
only shelter was a cow shed and you were entirely alone. Your father
lives, we are assured, and since he has recovered thus far we may
believe that he has turned the corner. Your mother is with him, no
doubt, and as for your grandfather, there is no need to worry about
him, for he is with friends who will look after him. One must do what
one can in these times, and I have my belief that we shall find him in
Paris waiting for us.”
“Then do we go on at once?”
“Not at once. In another day, I think. We must give them another day.
This is a good place. One finds it peaceful, restful. This Marianne
so friendly, monsieur so kind. Yes, it is not showing appreciation to
hurry away without reason. Another day, _chèrie_. We will take a good
night’s rest and let the morrow take care of itself.”
“Do you think grandfather will be here then?”
“It may be. If not we shall meet him in Paris. We have had that message
of his. It is enough.” And with this Lucie was obliged to be satisfied.
It had been an eventful day, but its excitements appeared to Lucie no
greater than those to which she looked forward in that great city of
Paris, which place she half feared, then longed to see. Was it there
that their home was to be henceforth, and what would it be like? She
could not form any picture of it in her mind, but wherever it might
be it was there that she would next see her parents. She fell asleep
wondering how soon they would all be united, and slept soundly, the “so
intelligent dog” curled up at her feet.
She awoke bright and early the next morning, at first imagining
herself back in her own room, though she soon perceived the difference
and sat up, the better to observe what she had failed to take in the
night before. It was a clean, orderly little room adorned with such
things as appeal to a young man’s taste, and she concluded that one of
those three sons must have occupied it before he went soldiering.
“At least it is not a cow shed,” she remarked to Pom Pom, “although for
my part I do not care for those funny things upon the wall.” She was
attracted by a pair of foils and fencing gloves at which she looked
curiously, then gave her attention to other manly adornments of the
room. These, however, did not keep her attention very long, for she
remembered the eventful journey which was probably before her, and
soon made ready to go downstairs to glean such news as might have been
gathered during the night. She found Paulette still in the rôle of
heroine recounting her adventures to a group of Marianne’s friends.
She stopped short at sight of Lucie and the little company of gossips
dispersed so that Lucie was left alone with Paulette, whom she began to
consider rather a person of importance who might very well direct their
future plans.
“What news? What news?” she asked. “Has anything been heard of my
grandfather?”
“Nothing,” replied Paulette, “and no news is good news. As for other
things they say the Germans are still advancing and that the people are
flocking from the villages by thousands. Those that do not flee must
remain to be under German rule. We are lucky, we, to have come when we
did.”
“What would have happened if we had stayed?”
“If we were not killed by the bombardment, we would have been caught
like rats in a trap.”
“Would they have killed us?” asked Lucie in horror.
“One cannot say, but for my part I should not like the idea of being
forced to obey a boche.”
“But do you think, could it be that mother and grandfather have been
caught that way?”
“Pst!” Paulette made a scornful snap of her fingers. “Dispose of that
notion. We shall hear quite otherwise. We shall know the truth about
them before long. In Paris everything is known. They say that one
cannot wink without the thing being known by the police.”
“What do we do first when we get to Paris?” Lucie inquired, full of
curiosity. “Where do we go? Is it to a place we shall live till my
parents arrive, and will it be in the heart of the city or in the
suburbs? Shall we have a garden, do you think?”
“La la,” cried Paulette, “what questions! How is one to tell till we
get there?”
“Shall we have plenty of money? Are we going to be very poor? Have you
enough in case grandfather is delayed in coming?”
“Such questions!” cried Paulette again. “We shall not at once starve,
though what is in the future who can say? The business is a thing of
the past; it is no more, and one must exercise economy of course, but
we shall see what we shall see. Rest tranquil for the present, my
pigeon; to-day we shall dine.” And no more could Lucie learn.
Though anxiously looked for, no news of Mons. Du Bois came that day.
Acting on the advice of Mons. Carriere, Lucie wrote to her grandfather
in the care of Jacques Moulin, and then Paulette determined that they
must set out the next morning, although Mons. Carriere protested, and
begged that they would remain where they were till something definite
had been learned about Mons. Du Bois. But Paulette, with the obstinacy
of her class, insisted that there was but one thing to be done, and
that was to carry out Mons. Du Bois’s orders. He had said that if they
missed him, failed to meet him in this town, they were to go on to
Paris and communicate with him there, so to Paris they must go and that
was the end of it.
Their good host did all that he could to smooth the way for them. He
directed them to a small and inexpensive hotel, urged them to let him
know how they fared and if in any difficulty to notify him, so they set
out quite cheerfully and hopefully.
The journey occupied more time than they supposed it would, for the
distance was not great and in ordinary times would have taken but a few
hours, but now there were frequent stops, cautious and slow advances,
but at last Paris was reached and they stood on the platform of the
Gare du Nord, Paulette still holding fast to her green umbrella and Pom
Pom capering about in delight at being released from confinement. They
drove to the quiet little hotel which Mons. Carriere had recommended,
and here began Lucie’s life in Paris, whether to be of long or short
period who could tell?
It was rather disappointing to Lucie from the outset. The small hotel
seemed a stuffy, shabby place after the daintiness and freshness of her
own home. Paulette was overcome with fear at the traffic in the streets
and dared not venture out, nor would she for a moment allow Lucie to go.
“You? Alone? A young maid in the streets of Paris? _Ciel!_” she
exclaimed. “It would be as a lamb among wolves. No, no, my child, it is
not to be thought of.”
“But, Paulette,” protested the girl, “it is so stupid here. I thought
Paris would be very gay, and here in this dark little street where one
can see so little it is anything but gay, and I do not like it.”
“One cannot look for gayety in war time,” returned Paulette grimly,
“and what one wants is not what one may look to receive.”
This Spartan-like response was very discouraging, and leaving Paulette
to arrange and rearrange the various baskets and bundles, Lucie went to
the window to gaze out into the street. A dismal rain was now falling,
and such little light as might be was intercepted by the tall buildings
opposite. It was not a very pleasing outlook and there was nothing
going on in the street itself that particularly invited attention, yet
Lucie, in order to pass away the time, sat for a long time with elbows
on the window sill, looking out.
She was aroused by a sudden remark of Paulette’s. “One cannot afford
this very long,” she said. “Unless we hear from your grandfather by
to-morrow morning we must seek this Mons. Moulin.”
Lucie turned away from the window and seated herself upon a worn and
faded armchair. “But, Paulette, you tell me you are so afraid in the
streets, and how could we ever find the way, in the rain too?”
“Are there not telephones?” returned Paulette.
[Illustration: Sitting on the topmost step, her head buried in her arm,
sobbing her heart out.]
“To be sure. We might have thought of that at once, and so relieved
our minds. Will you go down with me and see about it now, Paulette? We
know the address so it should not be difficult to find it in the book.
Shall we go?”
“The sooner the better,” responded Paulette. So down they went to the
telephone below. Paulette grudgingly produced the necessary coin to
pay for the call, and after some delay they managed to get hold of
the operator, but after what seemed an unconscionable time they were
informed that no response came to the call.
“It is probably a place of business and too late to find the
proprietor,” suggested the old man in charge of the office. “To-morrow,
mademoiselle, in the morning, no doubt you will find him without
difficulty.”
But in the morning they met with no greater success. “No answer,”
reported the operator.
“What can it mean?” Lucie turned in bewilderment to the old man.
“Probably this person has moved away.”
“Then what shall we do?”
“One would best go to the place and find out. There are neighbors, no
doubt, who can tell where the person has gone.”
“We shall have to go. There is nothing left to do,” said Lucie, turning
to Paulette. “Is it far, monsieur?” she asked. She showed the old man
the slip of paper on which she had written the address.
He read it and shrugged his shoulders. “Far enough.”
“But one can walk?” put in Paulette.
“Perhaps, if one knows the way; otherwise one must ride. A cab is not
so easy to procure these days; an omnibus, perhaps. It will be much
cheaper.”
“The cab, no. I will not go to the expense,” declared Paulette firmly.
“As to the omnibus--well, that too is a venture. How does one tell when
to get out? It is all very bewildering, this.” Always a resourceful
person, she now looked more worried than Lucie had ever seen her.
“Perhaps we could find some one to go with us,” the happy thought came
to Lucie.
“That is well thought of,” said the man, who was a good sort and really
quite concerned. “At another time I could accompany you myself, but in
these days--” He shook his head. “I am here to look after the business
of my son who has gone to the war, I who thought myself retired and
comfortable for the rest of my days. But what will you? I cannot let
the business go to the dogs. It is bad enough as it is, yet one must
hold on to it. I will think what can be done. My grandson might go; he
is at school, but when he returns we shall see.”
This relieved the situation in most directions, though Paulette had
many misgivings about trusting herself to the guardianship of so young
a lad as the little André was, and went forth in fear and trembling.
Lucie, on the contrary, was delighted at being able to see something
of the city. The rain had ceased, though it was still cloudy. André
chattered away, pointed out landmarks, answered questions glibly, and
was altogether a very satisfactory companion. Lucie thought Paulette
stalked along with the air of being ready to challenge any one who
looked her way, and though she bore herself stoically when they came to
the crowded crossings, Lucie could see that she was in an agony of fear
and dread.
At last they reached the street and number which should be that
of Jacques Moulin’s establishment. It was closed, doors locked,
windows barred. A notice read: “_Fermez; le propriétaire est sous les
drapeaux_.”
“_Mon Dieu!_” exclaimed Paulette, “but this is a thing terrible.”
Lucie was not so easily daunted. “We will inquire next door,” she said,
and forthwith proceeded to investigate.
An elderly man answered her questions. “Jacques Moulin?” Yes, to be
sure. He had gone, departed to the war. The business had been suspended
until after the war; who knew how long that might be? Had one Antoine
Du Bois been here recently inquiring for this same Moulin? The man
considered. He shook his head. No, there had been no one of that name,
of that he was positive.
Entirely at a loss what to do next, the little party turned away after
having secured the address of the firm with which Jacques Moulin had
consolidated. Paulette scarcely spoke on the way back; she was too
deeply occupied with puzzling out plans for the future. Lucie, too,
though she kept one ear open for André’s chatter, was disturbed in her
mind.
“What are we to do, Paulette? What are we to do?” she asked once they
were back in their rooms.
Paulette dived down into the depths of a pocket under her petticoats
and drew forth a queer little pouch the contents of which she shook out
into her lap, many sous, some franc pieces, a few five franc coins, one
paper note. She counted it all over laboriously. “This will serve for
a time,” she said at last, “and then the deluge. At once we must find
cheap lodgings, and then I shall look for employment; it should not be
difficult to find this when so many men have gone. I shall succeed. Oh
yes, I shall succeed.”
Lucie sat mute and distressed while Paulette made her calculations.
“But, Paulette,” she broke out finally, “is it necessary to do this? My
grandfather surely will appear very soon, and then there is my father’s
pay. When he knows our needs, of course he will see to it that we have
money.”
Paulette looked at her pityingly. “_Pauvre petite_, one may not look
at things through such rose-colored glasses. It might happen that the
affair would run smoothly, but how do we know that your father is yet
well enough to attend to such matters? This in the first place, and in
the second it might delay his recovery if he were given cause to worry.
Again, affairs of government are not arranged in a moment. Papers must
be prepared, sent to this one, that, and who knows how many months may
pass before all is arranged? Meanwhile are we to sit and suck our paws
like bears?”
“You know a great deal, don’t you, Paulette?” said Lucie much impressed.
“I have ears. I know what I hear,” returned Paulette. “Moreover,” she
went on, “who am I that I should not work? I have always worked, even
as a little child. I should be lost, desolated, without work. Am I to
sit up like a lady and fold my hands at my time of life? No, no, the
sooner I get to work the better.”
“But I cannot bear the idea of your working to feed me,” said Lucie.
“And who has a better right? Did I not nurse you, and have I not served
your family always, always.”
“Nevertheless,” began Lucie.
“La la, if it comes to that,” interrupted Paulette, “when I am too old
to work we can settle the score. That is finished. Now something else.
We telephone to these people whose address you have just learned. We
learn what we learn. Then at once we look for other lodgings. When we
leave here we leave the new address with the old one so that any may
know where to find us. That is all.” She carefully replaced the money,
securely tied up the little bag and put it back in her deep pocket,
then rose to carry out the plans she had made.
At the end of twenty-four hours Paulette had accomplished what she set
out to do, and Lucie found herself high up in an attic room, in an
old part of the city. “It is not magnificent but it will serve,” was
Paulette’s comment as they took possession. Lucie made no answer. It
seemed a mean and poor habitation to her. Its one redeeming feature was
a window which overlooked what had been an old convent garden, and gave
opportunity for the sun to find its way into the room, and for the girl
to see a bit of sky above the housetops. She foresaw that this would be
her favorite spot, and that a chair by the window would save her from a
feeling of utter desolation. “All the same I shall never cease to feel
like a cat in a strange garret,” she said to herself, as she turned
away from the window to help Paulette stow away their very modest
belongings.