A BIT OF SKY
Probably no quarter of the city could have suited Lucie and Paulette
better than the one to which good fortune guided them. Paulette,
while always declaring that she hated Paris and that she counted the
days till she could again return to her own home, nevertheless soon
became accustomed to the neighborhood and hobnobbed with dames of her
own degree, becoming as canny a _femme de ménage_ as any, doing her
marketing with an eye to the main chance and learning where one could
best shop for this or that commodity. With her usual good sense she had
looked for work of such kind as she could best do, and was engaged by
two families to do a certain amount of work, buy the food and cook the
midday meal, this employment occupying only her mornings, so that Lucie
would not be left alone the entire day.
Many were the charges given to the little girl when Paulette went off
to her work. She was not to leave the room on any pretext. She was not
to open to any one. She was not to play with fire.
At this last order Lucie always laughed. “One would think me a baby,”
she would declare.
“One cannot be too careful,” was Paulette’s invariable reply. “You are
ambitious, and some day you may attempt to cook the meal, and then
what?”
In her secret heart Lucie did cherish such an ambition in order that
she might surprise Paulette by having the meal ready upon the good
woman’s return, so she never had a response ready.
“I will tell that Mathilde, below there, to let no one up,” said
Paulette as usual, one morning as she went out.
“But supposing it should be grandfather or one of my parents,” returned
Lucie.
“That is another thing. Mathilde would understand, yet I do not
expect she will have so good news to tell me when I return, for it is
ill news we are having now. This morning I hear that the town where
that excellent Mons. Carriere lives has fallen into the hands of the
Germans.”
“Oh!” Lucie was startled. “What do you suppose will happen to him?”
“Who knows? With the Boches nearing Paris it is as much as one can do
to keep faith and hope alive.”
“Oh, Paulette, will they really get here, do you think?”
“They have moved the government to Bordeaux.”
“How fearful! But the people will not let them in, will they?”
Paulette compressed her lips to a hard line. “Not till they have killed
every _poilu_ on the way. Do not distress yourself, my little one. They
are not here yet. It is merely as a precaution that the government
removes itself. Now I go. Do not leave the place nor let any one in the
door.” And picking up her baskets she went out.
Lucie often went with Paulette to the little market and was never at a
loss for entertainment there, whether it was listening to the arguments
carried on between seller and buyer, in watching the people or in
giving an ear to the gossip of Paulette and some other peasant-born
woman. Pom Pom always went along, too, and generally managed to pick up
some bit of meat, a luxury to him as well as to most. On the way home
there was always a halt at a church in whose solemn and silent interior
prayers were offered up for those about whom all were anxious.
The little dog was great company for Lucie, and since there was no
Mousse to claim Paulette’s attention, she too bestowed her favor upon
Pom Pom. Probably he enjoyed, as much as the other two, the almost
daily visit to the park near by when both Lucie and Paulette would
take their knitting and sit under the trees with numbers of others
all knitting, knitting for the soldiers. The streets were very quiet
these days. One saw few young men unless it be a wounded man in
uniform, perhaps minus a leg or arm, or maybe blinded and guided by
some other. At night it was very dark, scarce a light to be seen, and
it was terrifying when more than once up from the street below would
come the shrill alarm of the pompiers: _garde à vous_, and this meant
that one must look out for the Zeppelins. Being at the top of the house
there was more danger for Lucie, Paulette and their neighbors on that
floor than for those below, and Paulette never failed to rout Lucie
out of bed, gather up Pom Pom and flee to the lowest floor where lived
Madame Mathilde, who was concierge, if so modest a house can be said to
possess a concierge.
It was one day when Paulette had gone off to her work that Lucie was
busy with her knitting, looking off between whiles at the bright clouds
floating over the tops of buildings and lending a radiance to a spire
here, a window there, when somehow the whole view made her think of an
evening with her mother just before the sad breaking up came. “Always
look up, dear daughter, and find a bit of sky,” her mother had said.
“One’s soul is seldom absolutely shut in. Between branches and roofs
one can generally find a shining piece of sky.” It all came back to
the girl now, those happy home days, those quiet talks in the garden.
She was very lonely, and liked the big city no better than Paulette
did, who was always declaring that the only thing which kept her from
returning, Germans or no Germans, was the fact that Mons. Du Bois might
appear at any moment and be distressed at not finding his granddaughter.
Lucie came to the toe of the stocking upon which she was at work. This
was the difficult place over which Paulette always helped her, so she
laid it aside till Paulette should return. This was the signal for Pom
Pom to arouse from his nap and to beg for a frolic. He jumped upon
Lucie, wagging his tail, and giving little sharp barks.
“Not so much noise, Pom,” chided Lucie. “Did you hear the _pompier_
last night? I know you did for you trembled and whined your fear. Well,
Paulette declares we would be safer in our old home, so we may take to
the road again. Come, you must have your soldier clothes, for you may
have to fight for us.”
Pom Pom backed away, for this was a game that he did not care for,
but seeing that there was no help for it he meekly submitted to being
dressed up in the funny little coat and cap which Annette and Lucie had
made for him.
“Now come show yourself to the people,” said Lucie after he was
attired. “You must let them see that there is a _poilu_ here to help
in the defense of the city.”
She carried him over to the open window and held him so he stood
upright upon his hind legs, though he did not like this one little bit,
and began to whine his protests. Lucie expostulated with him. “I am
surprised at you, Pom Pom; a soldier of France, a _poilu_, to act as if
he were afraid. That is no way to behave. You were brave enough when we
were on the road. Here, here, show how you can sing the Marseillaise:
‘_Aux armes, citoyens_.’”
A very shrill, high-pitched whine was Pom Pom’s accompaniment to
Lucie’s song, the whine increasing in shrillness as the song proceeded.
Presently Lucie was aware of an audience, for she heard a mirthful
laugh, and looking across to the next window she saw the head of a
bright-eyed little girl.
“How he is amusing, this dog,” said the child. “Is he yours, and what
is his name?”
“Yes, he is mine and he is called Pom Pom,” Lucie replied.
“He must be much company for you.”
“Certainly I should be very lonely without him. I do not know in fact
what would become of me without him when I am here so long alone.”
“Why are you alone?”
“Because I have no brothers or sisters. I know no one here in Paris.
My father has gone to the war. My mother has gone to the hospital where
he lies wounded. My grandfather has lost himself on the road to this
city, and I have arrived here with only our old servant, Paulette. We
were obliged to leave our home, you see, when the Germans came.”
“Ah, but you are better off than I am, for your parents are still
living. My dear papa was killed in the war, and my mamma died, the
little baby too; it was such a little baby, and she was too ill to make
such a long journey on foot. I am here with the old aunt of my father,
and we lodge with a friend of hers. They must both go to work every
day, so I am also alone. It is very _triste_, this place, is it not?
One misses so many things, particularly the animals and the garden.”
“You mean this Paris? You do not belong here then?”
“No, I come from Picardy.”
“Then we are comrades,” cried Lucie, “for I come from the Aisne
district, and like you I have left my home to come to this place of
refuge. What is your name?”
“I am called Odette, Odette Moreau.”
“And I am Lucie Du Bois.”
“I wish I could come to see you and your dog,” said Odette.
Lucie hesitated a moment, remembering Paulette’s charges, but she
managed to get around the subject by saying: “Why can’t you? When
Paulette comes back she will permit me to open the door, though while
she is out I may not.”
Odette laughed. “My case is even worse, for I am locked in.”
“Then when those old ones return we can visit, I hope.”
“I shall like that. Do you not think you’d better take in your dog? The
police do not allow us to place anything on the window sill, you know.”
“But Pom Pom is not a thing,” returned Lucie laughing; “I consider him
a person.”
Odette laughed in response but drew in her head and Lucie did the
same. Paulette would not return for another hour, during which time
would hang heavy on her hands. She wished that Paulette were not so
particular, and that Odette’s guardians were not such exacting ones.
“There could not be the slightest objection to my opening the door to
Odette, that I know,” she said to Pom Pom. “If only she could get out I
certainly would do it. Hark! What is that?”
Pom Pom pricked up his ears and growled at a sharp noise which seemed
to come from the next room.
“Hush, Pom Pom; it is not possible to find out what that is when you
make such a fuss,” said Lucie. “It cannot be a bird, yet what else?
Certainly that is something tapping on the window. I will go and peep.
Softly now, softly.”
She tiptoed to the next room, and saw pressed against the window pane
the merry face of Odette. In another moment the window was opened and
in slipped the little neighbor.
Lucie looked at her in amazement. “How in the world did you get here?”
she asked.
Odette laughed. “It was not so difficult. I could not open my door
and you were not permitted to open yours, so I told myself that one
must contrive another way. There was nothing said about windows, you
perceive, therefore I come by way of windows.”
“But how?” repeated Lucie.
“Where there are trap doors, roofs, and gutters it is easy to one
who is used to climbing,” returned Odette with a little shrug of the
shoulders and a nonchalant air.
“So then you climbed through a trap door, down the roof, made your way
across a gutter and dropped down on the balcony outside there. I don’t
see how you had the courage. I can climb trees but when it comes to a
thing like this--” Lucie shook her head in sheer wonder at the audacity
of it.
“I am not one to lose my head,” returned Odette serenely.
“But if you had fallen.”
“I should have been killed, instantly. What matter? One must die
sooner or later, and at least I have no one to grieve for me. So much
the sooner would I meet my father and mother again. Now I shall stay
till those old ones return and we shall tell each other of what has
been, and what has come to us in these sad days.”
But Lucie’s thoughts were still upon Odette’s daring deed. “Suppose you
had been seen from the street; the police would have come dashing in,
and then--”
“But I was not upon the window sill,” interrupted Odette laughing.
“Moreover, I was not seen, for at this moment every one eats and
there were few to look up, for those who were not indoors eating were
thinking of what they should eat, and one does not look for food in the
skies or on roofs. No, I assure you, I was quite safe.”
So the subject was dismissed and Lucie led the way into her little
room, saying, “It is more pleasant here by my window. We will sit here
and tell of our adventures.”
“And will the little dog sit in my lap? I had a dear dog at home but he
is also dead, killed by a bomb, they said. It was strange that I did
not weep when I was told, but I think I had no more tears. I shed them
all when my mother died.” Into the child’s brown eyes came a haunted
look, as if she were seeing things beyond power of words to tell. She
was a slightly built, thin little creature, not so tall as Lucie and of
darker skin.
The tears came to Lucie’s eyes as she lifted Pom Pom into her
visitor’s lap. The dog looked inquiringly at his mistress but seemed
to understand that he was to remain, and was very quiet under the
caressing touch of Odette’s hand.
“We had a little farm,” Odette went on, “and we were very happy, but
I shall never see that home again, for it does not exist. There is
nothing there, nothing but deep holes in the ground, no trees, no
house, no barn; all is destroyed, the house and barn burned, the trees
cut down, the fields plowed up by bullets and bombs. There is nothing
to go back to, and no one is there. Oh, I know, for I have heard my
aunt tell it over and over again, and when I shut my eyes at night I
can imagine it, that horrible place of holes where no one lives. I do
not wish to see it, but sometimes I dream of my home, yet when I wake I
know it is only a dream, only a dream.” She shook her head mournfully,
and the tragic expression in her eyes deepened. In another moment,
however, she tossed up her head with a gesture of defiance. “I will not
think of it. I will think only of France, and of her soldiers. You have
a soldier papa. Tell me of him and of your home.”
“My papa is a captain. He went at once. He was wounded, but at last
news he was improving. Paulette managed to find out this, and we are
now trying to get word of my mamma, and of my grandfather. We expected
to find my grandfather here in Paris, but he has not come and those
good ladies at the _ouvroir_ are trying to find out what has become of
him. Our home was not a farm but in a small town where my father had a
factory as his father had before him. We are afraid all is destroyed,
but we do not know. We had a pretty garden and such pleasant neighbors.
I hope, oh, I do hope all is not destroyed, and that we can go back. I
cannot imagine being happy anywhere else.”
Odette looked at her compassionately. “It seems that you are very
young,” she said. “Me, I feel so old. I think I have lived many years
in a few weeks, and yet I am only fifteen.”
“And I only a year younger,” Lucie said. “Why do I seem so young to
you, Odette?”
“Because you still have things to expect, to hope for. I have nothing,
because all has been taken.”
“Oh, but Odette!”
“La, la, let us not speak of it. I shall laugh and be gay, very gay
like the soldiers. Is it for the soldiers you are knitting?”
“Yes, but I cannot do the toe of my sock without Paulette. I am very
stupid about it.”
“Ah, that is where I can help you, for I have been knitting socks
for so long a time I cannot remember when I began it. Give me your
knitting, I shall like to work upon it.” She took the sock which Lucie
handed to her, and at once made the needles fly so fast that Lucie
looked on in admiration.
“What a brisk worker,” exclaimed the latter. “You are very clever,
Odette.”
“Oh, not at all. I do everything at a gallop; it has always been my
way. Where is it that your father is?”
“Somewhere in the provinces, Paulette said, and he will then be sent
to another place where the convalescents are. Paulette is so timid, so
afraid in this Paris that she will not venture anywhere that she is not
obliged to go, neither will she allow me to go. I think there may be
places where one could find out things, but we are ignorant of them,
and can only do so much.”
Odette nodded understandingly. “We of the country are afraid in this
city so large. Me, when the time comes I shall go back to the country,
somewhere in the country. I know not where; so says my aunt and so say
I.”
“Hark,” said Lucie, jumping up, “there comes Paulette. She may seem
severe, but she is kind, oh, so kind, and you will not mind when she
looks at you sharply; it is her way, that is all.”
“One knows the way of these old ones,” returned Odette imperturbably,
going on with her knitting.
Paulette came to the door, and, as Lucie had warned, looked sharply at
the little visitor. “And pray who is this?” she asked.
“It is our next door neighbor, Odette Moreau.”
“Then you have opened the door to her,” Paulette said this
disapprovingly.
Odette looked up with a mischievous smile.
“That she did not, Madame,” she said.
“One cannot open it without a key,” said Paulette, shaking her head,
“and there is no other way of entering.”
“Ah, but there is, Madame, and I took that way.” There was such a
roguish look in Odette’s eyes that Lucie laughed.
“You are mocking me, and trying to deceive me, but me, I am not one to
be deceived even in this so great city,” declared Paulette.
“But I am not deceiving you,” protested Odette, “and if you wish to
know how I entered I will tell you that it was by the window.”
“The window!” Paulette gazed at the window of the little room as if she
expected to see at least a ladder there.
“Not this one, but that in the other room,” Odette went on. “There is a
small balcony there if you remember.”
“But one cannot reach it except from the room. That is a poor method,
mademoiselle, of getting out of a bad situation.”
“There are airplanes and balloons.” Odette placidly kept on with the
knitting while Paulette’s sharp eyes noted the rapidity with which she
made the needles fly.
“But that is absurd,” said the good woman.
“This is but a ruse,” She turned to Lucie. “I desire to know how this
young person came to find her way in here.”
“It is as she said; she came by the window,” Lucie told her with a
smile.
“But this is too ridiculous,” declared Paulette, walking off with a
troubled look.
“Come back! Come back, and we will tell you all about it.” Lucie ran
after her. “She was lonely, this poor little Odette, shut up, locked
in indeed. We saw each other from the window, and when we learned that
we were both refugees and both from Picardy, figure to yourself how
easy it was to become acquainted. I might not open my door; she could
not unlock hers, for her aunt has taken the key. Oh, she is clever
and very brave, this Odette. What do you think she did? She climbed
through a trap door upon the roof, and dropped as easily as a bird upon
the balcony. She tapped upon the window; I heard her and let her in.”
Then before Paulette could censure, Lucie hastened to continue her
story. “And, Paulette, it is so sad; there is her father dead upon the
battlefield, her home burned to the ground. Her poor mother with her
little baby died on the way when they were escaping from the Germans.
Think of being shut up alone with such memories. Do you wonder that she
longed for some one to speak to?”
Paulette sighed. “It was a great risk and altogether wrong,” she said,
“but I do not wonder, and since she is here she must stay till she can
get back.” In her secret heart she admired the reckless deed quite as
much as she did the expert way in which Odette handled the knitting
needles. Therefore back she went to speak more graciously to the little
neighbor, and to bid her welcome.
This was the beginning of an acquaintance, the result of which none of
them foresaw, nor did they dream of the part little Odette should have
in their lives.