SHOES
After this there was not a day passed that Lucie and Odette were
not together, for while Odette belonged to the peasant class and
Lucie to the bourgeois, this was no time for distinctions, and
Paulette countenanced the acquaintance not only because Odette was a
well-behaved young person, but because the two little girls were lonely
and were companions in misery. Besides all this Odette was so alert and
capable, knew so much of domestic affairs, that Paulette was convinced
in time that she could trust the two girls to cook a meal, and to do
many of the things which heretofore she had never admitted could be
done by any one but herself. Like most in her walk of life, Paulette
was suspicious, and must satisfy herself as to the character of those
neighbors with whom Odette lived.
“They are old, those two next door,” she reported to Lucie the day
after Odette’s first visit.
“As old as you, Paulette?” asked Lucie innocently.
“As old as I? _Ma foi_, one would suppose me an ancient, I who have a
young son no older than eighteen. Those two could be my mother.”
“Both of them? It would be funny to have two mothers,” replied Lucie
mischievously.
“Zut!” exclaimed Paulette contemptuously. “It is this city, no doubt,
which teaches you to be so witty. I repeat they are of an age when I
might be a daughter to either one. They are given work at the _ouvroir_
of _les Dames Americaine_, but very little pay; three francs a day the
two of them receive, but they maintain that it suffices. For me I make
more, yet it is well to remember this _ouvroir_. One never knows what
may happen. They have no allotment to depend upon, those two poor old
bodies, for they have not a son in the army, as I have.”
“I have a father, should not I have an allotment?” asked Lucie.
“It goes to your mother, of course,” returned Paulette. “Do not worry
over that; you are too young. We have enough, perhaps we do not feast,
but at least we do not starve.” She paused to give herself up to
meditating upon what Lucie had suggested, then she broke out with:
“And even supposing there were an allotment for you, it would be small
enough, and how would one go about getting it for you? It is not for
me to say, and we had better think no more about it.”
“I like that Odette,” remarked Lucie, “and I am very glad she is so
near that I can see her every day. Did you ask her aunt if she would
let her come?”
“I asked, yes, for they seem respectable, though they were horrified to
discover what the child had done, and no wonder. She has always been
very venturesome, said the aunt. ‘I call it more than venturesome; I
call it foolhardy,’ said the other.”
“And what do you call it?” asked Lucie.
Paulette shrugged her shoulders. “It is as one looks at those things.
For you I should call it imbecile, for this other who is as thin and
lithe as a monkey it is another thing, I would not have her do it
again, but for this once it shows what she is made of. She would not
hesitate, that one. If she saw a thing must be done, she would do it
without delay.”
“I like that,” returned Lucie. “It is as our soldiers do.”
“And as the wives of soldiers must do,” which remark showed Lucie that
Odette was approved.
It was the very next day that Paulette came home with a long face. She
put down her basket with a heavy sigh, and paid no attention to Pom
Pom’s joyous greetings.
“What is it, Paulette?” asked Lucie anxiously. “Are you ill?”
“In mind; not body.”
“But why? What has happened? Don’t tell me, Paulette, that there is
some new misfortune.”
“It is a misfortune that I am deprived of the means of earning a fair
living. Madame Lemercier is leaving the city to-day and Madame Gouraud
goes next week. They fear to remain, and are going to the south where
they have friends.”
“Oh, Paulette, what are we to do? I did not expect that I should be
hearing such news as this.”
“Nor did I expect, when I spoke of those old ones and the _ouvroir_
which is helping them, that Paulette Ribot might have to accept charity
from the hands of strangers. But she will not, no, she will not, if
there is work for her in this city. To-morrow begins the search for it.”
“Those two for whom you have been working, Madame Lemercier and Madame
Gouraud, did they know of no one who would like a _femme de ménage_?”
“_Hélas!_ they did not. I asked, of course, but what would you when
they were all absorbed in their preparations for leaving? No, what
comes to one must be first sought for.”
Lucie sighed. “I wish there were something I could do, for soon my
shoes will be gone, and yours, too, my Paulette; then we shall want
warm things for the winter.”
“It will not be difficult if one can get work, for I still have a
little hoard and there is Jean’s allotment when it comes. Do not
be uneasy, my child. I begin to-morrow to hunt the city over for
employment.”
“But, Paulette, you do not know the city, and you are afraid to go
anywhere except in those streets with which you are acquainted.”
Paulette puffed out her cheeks and threw back her head. “Zut!” she
exclaimed. “Have I then less courage than that little skinny ape of a
child next door? Rest tranquil, _chérie_; I shall arrive.”
There was a great noise of shouting and cheering in the street at that
moment. Lucie ran to the window to see. “Come, Paulette,” she cried.
“Something is going on. A victory! Yes, it is a victory! Don’t you hear
them shouting: ‘_Vive la France_,’ and ‘_Vive Joffre_’? Let us go down
and see.”
“_Bien_,” responded Paulette laconically, putting up her knitting.
So, down the gloomy stairway they went to the street, where people were
gathered in knots, all talking, exclaiming. “Is it then a victory at
last?” inquired Paulette.
“A victory indeed,” the nearest woman told her. “They have driven those
Boches across the Marne. We are safe.”
Paulette looked down at Lucie, who was eagerly listening, “If those
silly donkeys of women had but waited another day,” she said, “I would
still be holding my job.”
“They will come back, perhaps, when they know.”
“Not they. They have hearts of chickens, rabbits, those two.”
Nevertheless the news of the victory of the Marne did encourage the
good woman and she started out the next morning declaring that good
luck was with them and that she would come back with work to do. It was
very late when she did return, weary and with downcast countenance. She
shook her head when Lucie asked what success. “They are so many, these
refugees,” she said, “and all must be fed, must have employment. In
that St. Sulpice it is like a village, and one meets groups of them on
the street with a look as of those lost. So many, so many, and we are
also refugees. One more day of this and I go to the country. I care not
where. I can work in the fields.”
But the next day she came home with better reports. She had found work,
but it would keep her all day, and what would Lucie do?
“I shall have Odette and we can manage,” declared Lucie sturdily. “She
can teach me how to cook and I can then have the meal ready when you
come.”
“Tst! Tst!” cried Paulette. “Two children instead of one to set the
house on fire.”
“But Odette, she is very clever, as clever as a woman. I can tell that.
I wish you could see what she has been doing to-day. Wait, I will ask
her to show you.” She ran off to bring in the little neighbor, who
came, work in hand. “Look at this,” cried Lucie, taking it from her.
Paulette received into her hand a white satin shoe. She looked at it
contemptuously. “Is mademoiselle then attending a ball?” she asked
sarcastically.
Odette handed her the mate to the shoe; this she was covering neatly
with black cloth. “I needed shoes,” she said. “There was but this pair
at the _ouvroir_, but Mademoiselle said I could have them. I think she
too wondered what I would do with them. I shall wear them and show her.
She will be surprised, that young American lady. The cloth I begged
from the bag of the old lady who is friend of my aunt.”
“Is she not clever?” said Lucie.
“She will do,” responded Paulette, but after this no more was said
of fire due to carelessness on Odette’s part, and the next morning
Paulette started forth to work. It was in a laundry and she did not
like it, but never a word did she say to Lucie about that.
So the days went by, and Lucie learned a great many things. Odette
taught her to make an excellent _potage_, though more often it was a
_soupe maigre_ which they were obliged to have. Paulette took a modest
lunch with her, for she did not get back till night, and the two little
girls had their meal together. Paulette arranged that they should go to
market with Mathilde, under whose instructions Lucie became an expert
buyer, and although she was always busy she was the happier for it.
At night the streets were dark; there was no rattle of omnibuses, no
shops open, window curtains drawn, even the street cars darkened by
blinds. It was not like the Paris of which Lucie had dreamed in those
early days.
Out of this darkness one evening came a welcome visitor. It was Pom Pom
who first recognized the step on the stair. He sniffed at the crack of
the door, then began to whine excitedly, running first to Lucie and
then to Paulette, imploring in his language to be let out.
“What in the world is the matter with the little beast?” said Paulette.
“Shall I let him out?”
“No; it is a stray cat which has come in, no doubt. He does not like
stray cats; he is clever, however, and recognizes friends. He never
disturbs that big cat of Mathilde.”
“He certainly is making a great fuss,” remarked Lucie as Pom Pom became
more and more frantic. “Ah, there is a knock at the door; it is a
person and not a cat. Shall I go?”
“Not at all. I will go.” Although she was quite ready to scold Lucie,
when she thought occasion required, and the two lived as equals,
Paulette never forgot the proprieties when necessary. It was her place
to go to the door, and she went. For a moment she started at the
soldier standing there in his red trousers and blue coat. The light was
dim and until he spoke she did not recognize him. “Monsieur Victor!”
she then cried.
Then Lucie, who had vainly tried to hold Pom Pom, sprang to her feet,
but she could not outdistance the little dog, who seemed to reach his
master at one bound.
“I am right, then,” said Victor’s hearty voice. “There would be no
mistaking Pom Pom even if I saw no one else. How are you, Paulette? How
is Mlle. Lucie? _Ciel!_ but I have had a time finding you!”
“And how did you find us?” asked Lucie, giving him both hands while he
kissed her on either cheek.
“Through our good friend, Mons. Carriere. You know the Germans were
driven from his village and when we entered I looked him up. He told
me that he had directed you to a certain hotel, the name of which I
stowed away in my memory. I found it closed, but I learned where I
should find the family of the former proprietor; he, poor fellow, has
been killed on the front.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Lucie. “The poor old father, and little André, I am so
sorry for them.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Victor hastily. “So then I learned your
address and came to find you.”
“But have you received none of my letters?” asked Lucie.
“Not one.”
“How unfortunate! Then I suppose one may believe that none of my
letters have reached their destinations, those to my father, my mother,
Annette. To my dear grandfather I could not write because I do not know
where he is. That is the thing I wish first to know, Victor. Have you
heard anything of my grandfather? Mons. Carriere might have learned
something. Did you ask him?”
“I asked, yes.” Victor cast a hasty glance at Paulette, who answered
by lifting her eyebrows and compressing her lips, but she said not a
word. “You know that all those towns beyond there were occupied by the
Germans, all that country, in fact.”
“Yes, I know that, but it is not so now, and if he had been there he
could have left when the Germans retreated.”
“To be sure.” Victor looked down helplessly, picked up Pom Pom, put him
down, got up and walked to the window, where he stood without saying
anything.
“Well?” said Lucie at last. “Why don’t you go on, Victor?” she added in
a panic. “What is it? What have you heard?”
“You know they shelled those towns,” said Victor at last, his back
still turned.
“Yes, yes, I know. Poor grandfather, he was hurt! I see. Tell me, tell
me. He lies somewhere wounded, suffering.”
Victor turned around, came close and took her two hands in his. “He is
not suffering now, little Lucie,” he said gently.
Lucie looked at him wildly for a moment, then she understood. She
buried her face in her hands for a moment, then she ran sobbing to
Paulette to hide her face on the good woman’s shoulder. “He is dead,
grandfather is dead!” she faltered. “Oh, this cruel, cruel war, will it
take everything from us?”
“Courage, little one, courage,” whispered Paulette, patting her softly.
“He was not young, the dear man. His time had come and the good God
took him.”
“Tell me,” said Lucie, turning her streaming eyes upon Victor. “Tell me
all.”
“This Gustave Foucher in whose cart your grandfather traveled, turned
aside, as you already know, but, poor man, he turned the wrong way,
for soon he found himself in the midst of bombardment. He could not go
on; he could not go back. The Germans were in possession, shells were
bursting, bombs falling. In hurrying to shelter your grandfather was
struck by shrapnel. He lived on a few minutes. A quick death and an
easy one.”
“And how did you learn this, Mons. Victor?” asked Paulette.
“I inquired in every town through which I passed, and at last I was
told by those remaining in the town. They remembered Foucher quite
well, and the old man who came with him and who was killed.”
“And Gustave?”
“Was sent into Germany by the Boches.”
Lucie, who had recovered from her first violent fit of crying, said
quietly, “I would rather my grandfather should die than be sent into
Germany.”
“One is not necessarily ill treated,” said Victor. “He would be made to
work, and he would not feast on the fat of the land, to be sure.”
“And I suppose those Boches had the benefit of our basket of food that
was in the cart,” said Paulette, turning to Lucie.
Sad as the occasion was, Victor could not withstand smiling, and even
into Lucie’s eyes crept a less mournful look. It was so like Paulette
to regret the food.
“I suppose you have seen nothing of my Jean,” said Paulette, changing
the subject.
Victor shook his head. “Do you hear from him?” he asked.
“Not often. Once or twice. He was safe two weeks ago. He is a good boy,
that Jean, and when he gets his _permissionaire_ he will come to see
me, though I wish he might find me elsewhere than in Paris.”
“Then you do not like this fine city.”
Paulette flung out her hands contemptuously. “It is a den of confusion,
not so bad now, perhaps since there are fewer vehicles, but I do not
find myself at home, and I would rather work in the fields than in a
vile laundry.”
“Is that what you are doing?” Victor asked in surprise.
“One must do what one can. I do not care to beg nor to live upon
charity. It is necessary to have clothing as well as food. This moment
that child needs shoes, or will soon.”
“Does your father know of this?” Victor asked Lucie.
“My father? We have not had a word from him. In some way Paulette was
able to find out that he had been sent to a convalescent hospital in
the south. We hope my mother is with him, but we do not know. There
seems no way to find out. We do not know where to inquire about such
things.”
“This must be attended to,” exclaimed Victor. “It cannot be allowed
to go on. I will see to this myself. If your father by this time has
not returned to his duties, at least he is well enough to know what is
happening to you.”
“We did not want to worry him while he was so ill,” explained Lucie,
“and after that we did not know where to address him.”
“You could have found out.”
“Where?”
Victor shrugged his shoulders in despair. The helplessness of the girl,
the ignorance of the peasant woman, who was also proud and suspicious,
was really pitiful. Of Lucie’s father he felt sure he could get a
report. Of her mother he had grave doubts which he did not mention.
“We shall soon get this straightened out,” he said confidently. “It is
the first matter I shall attend to. You have not noticed that I have a
promotion, Lucie, and I am much aggrieved. Do you not perceive that I
am now a corporal?”
“Really? How stupid of me not to notice, but these other things--” she
stopped to draw a long sigh. “I congratulate you, Victor. How did you
win your stripe?”
“Oh, never mind; it was a little matter not worth the talking about. I
only drew attention to it that you might properly respect me. To-morrow
being Sunday I thought we might celebrate it by a little dinner. I
believe they still dine in Paris. It is fine weather. We will make a
holiday and take a walk in the gardens and have a little treat. What do
you say, Paulette? You will go?”
Paulette, pleased to be included, smiled a gracious acceptance, at the
same time knowing perfectly well that Lucie could not be allowed to go
without her, and believing it would be a good thing to divert the child
at this particular time.
“And Annette, you hear from Annette? That is another person who does
not answer my letters,” said Lucie.
“Ah, yes, Annette, of course. She is safe, out of the danger zone, but
not in the place she expected to be, for that ceased to be safe, and
with her grandparents she has gone farther off.”
“So, of course that is why I have not heard from her.”
“I will give you her address; that much at least I can do, and I
promise I will soon have news of your father.”
“You are very comforting, Victor; you always are, even this time when
you bring me such sorrowful tidings, you comfort me, too. It is very
hard for us to have no one.”
“There is no use in complaining,” said Paulette stoically. “We have
done very well, Mons. Victor. We have not starved and we have kept a
roof over our heads, which is more than some can say. I will light you
down. One must not illuminate these days.”
“Good night, little Lucie, and keep up your courage,” said Victor.
“To-morrow we shall make a holiday, a quiet one, but still a holiday.”
After watching soldier and faithful servant grope their way down one
dim flight, by the flickering light of a candle, Lucie returned to her
room. At the foot of the stairs Paulette paused. “It is not for the
father I fear so much as the mother,” she said. “If she has been sent
to Germany, who knows? who knows?”
“That is in my mind, also, Paulette,” said Victor. “We must not let the
child know our fears. She is too young to suffer more than she must,
and that is enough. It goes to my heart to see her here in Paris when I
remember how gay and happy she was in that other place.”
“It is the will of the _bon Dieu_, and we must be patient. It is
wonderful, monsieur, how patient she has been, and how eager she is to
help. If you will believe it she can cook a meal as well as any woman.
Even I say it, and the _potage_ she can make need not be despised by
any one. She has grown in more ways than in inches.”
“I have done that myself, Paulette,” said Victor gravely. “I shall
never again be the careless lad I used to be before this war.”
“It will be so with my Jean, I suppose, if so be God spares him,” said
Paulette solemnly.
“And if not he will have a glorious record, that which belongs to one
who dies for his country,” returned Victor. “You will try to comfort
the little one, Paulette. Do not let her grieve too much for the
grandfather. I will not say how fine I think you have been in caring
for her. It will be a great consolation to her mother when she knows.”
“There is nothing to say, monsieur,” returned Paulette with dignity.
“I am doing my duty which is also my pleasure, for I love the child. I
have watched her and served her since she came into the world; it would
be a fine thing if I deserted her now.”
She opened the door and let him out into the dark and silent street,
then slowly climbed the four flights of stairs to the garret room where
Lucie sat in the darkness.