NENETTE AND RINTINTIN
It was when they came from church that Lucie and Paulette found Victor
waiting for them, “Come, come,” he said, “we must begin our day at
once.”
“We shall have to go up to get Pom Pom first,” returned Lucie. “He has
been shut up too long a time to please him as it is. It will be a happy
time for him, for he has none too much chance for being out-of-doors.”
“He knew me at once and was glad to see me, the little rascal,” said
Victor.
“He will always love you best, though I do think he loves me very
well,” said Lucie.
“I should have credited him with better sense,” responded Victor.
“Because of his loving me very well?” asked Lucie mischievously.
“Not at all, but because you think he loves me more. However, I do not
admit that.”
Lucie laughed teasingly. She had lain awake a long time the night
before, full of trouble and forebodings. She mourned her grandfather
sincerely, but she was very young; she had become accustomed to
thinking of him as apart from her daily life, therefore she did not
miss him as she once would have done. Moreover, the promise of a day of
pleasure could but cheer her up, as Victor intended it should do.
She ran upstairs, and presently Pom Pom came dashing down in a perfect
turmoil of excitement, the more violent when he beheld Victor. “If I
were something smaller he would eat me up,” declared Victor, trying to
evade Pom Pom’s lavish bestowal of kisses. “Do you then take me for a
lump of meat, Pom Pom?”
At last the dog’s ecstasies were diminished and Victor gave himself up
to planning for the day’s outing. “What do you say to a little trip on
the river? We may not find it possible to go very far, but a little
way is not out of the question. I have a comrade who lives at Auteuil.
I have promised to take word of him to his people. Would this plan be
agreeable to you, Lucie, and you, Paulette?”
“I should adore it,” declared Lucie. “Isn’t it a delightful idea,
Paulette?”
In her heart of hearts Paulette was not so sure. She had never in all
her life had the experience of a trip on the water, but if Lucie wanted
it, be it far from her to object, so she said in the most indifferent
way: “It is all one to me. Suit yourselves and I shall be suited.”
Down to the river they went to board one of the small steamers plying
none too frequently between Charenton and Auteuil. On the way Victor
stopped to buy a newspaper and some sweet chocolate, which latter he
might not have been able to get but for the fact that he was a _poilu_
to whom nothing was to be denied. He handed it to Lucie, who accepted
as gratefully as any girl would who had not tasted chocolate in any
form for months. Paulette seated herself gingerly. She was armed
with the green umbrella, explaining that no one knew when it might
rain. She balanced herself on the seat as if momentarily one might
expect to be tipped over in one direction or the other, but she soon
became accustomed to the easy motion of the steamboat and entertained
herself by looking at the other passengers. There was quite a number
of soldiers with their sweethearts, a few country people, a couple of
nuns, a priest or two.
“At Auteuil we shall take our first meal,” announced Victor.
“I suppose you know where to go,” returned Paulette.
“Oh, yes,” he answered serenely. “I know; it is one reason why we
go. These parents of my comrade, it is they who keep a small inn. I
tell myself that it is a good policy to go there for we shall be well
treated without doubt.”
“Ah-h,” breathed Paulette with satisfaction. “That was a clever idea,
monsieur.”
“So I told myself. I said I will go there first because Honoré wishes
me to; second, because we shall probably fare better there than
anywhere else.”
“Ah-h,” breathed Paulette again. “It is well that those two reasons
fitted so conveniently, monsieur.”
Victor laughed, opened his newspaper and began reading bits of news to
Lucie. Pom Pom lay on the seat between them, gazing with fascinated
eyes at these new scenes through which he was passing.
At last came their landing place, and they went ashore. Victor led the
way through this and that street till they stopped before a small inn
set in a garden. It bore a sign which set forth the fact that this was
the restaurant Honoré, kept by one Pierre Blondot. Victor went in, the
others following. A gray-haired man came forward. “Do I address the
father of my comrade Honoré Blondot?” said Victor in his best manner.
“_Mon Dieu!_” cried the man, “you are the friend of our boy? He is
well? You bear no bad news?”
“He is very well, and I promised to come and tell you this with my own
lips. In passing I will say also that I have brought these ladies to
have breakfast in your so charming establishment, of whose merits I
have heard many times from my friend Honoré.”
“_Bien, bien!_ That is very well, as it should be. I welcome you and
your friends. Marie, Marie, come at once. Here is a pleasant surprise
for us. It is my wife that I call, my friends. It is the mother of
Honoré who is coming.”
A stout, trim, little dumpling of a woman came bustling forward. “What
is this? What is this, Pierre?”
Swelling with importance the good host with a wave of the hands
included the guests. “This monsieur, Marie, what think you? he arrives
on his _permissionaire_, is it not so, monsieur? He comes direct to us
with a message from our son, his comrade. Is this not a fine thing,
that he comes to us?”
“Oh, monsieur, you have seen him, you know him? The little one, he
remembered to send us a message. He is well? He is not unhappy?”
“He is very well, madame, and he is quite content. We are all content
after the victory. Paris is saved.”
“I will so embrace you, monsieur, for it is you with the others who
have done this great thing,” said mine host tearfully, as he laid his
big hands on Victor’s shoulders and kissed him on each cheek. “I give
you my thanks, my child.”
“Ah, but monsieur, madame, I have done nothing. I am but a very small
atom,” protested Victor.
“Without the atoms there could not be a thing entire,” said their
host. “But, Marie, we are forgetting the ladies. A thousand pardons,
mademoiselle, madame. I beg you will come in and be seated. Breakfast,
Marie, and the best, the best.”
At these words Victor turned to give Paulette a sly wink, while she,
quite embarrassed at being one of the party at table, and wondering if
she would be spared committing a lapse in table manners, seated herself
in the place indicated by Pierre.
There were no other guests and the whole establishment seemed to be run
by the goodman and his wife, a fact which Lucie noted and whispered to
Paulette.
“So much the better,” she returned; “the meal will probably be better
cooked and better served,” as indeed it was.
After days of frugality it was indeed a treat to partake of a tasty
soup, omelette of the freshest of eggs, chicken of the tenderest,
grapes and pears just gathered. “I regret that the coffee is not up to
the mark,” complained Pierre, who himself waited on them, “but what can
you expect? _C’est la guerre._”
Madame came from the kitchen rather flushed and embarrassed to ask
timidly if Victor could find place in his luggage for a small package
which she wished to send to her son. “It is but one pair of socks and
another little thing,” she explained.
“I can find room for a dozen pairs of socks,” he responded heartily,
“and would be glad to carry that many.”
“But no, monsieur, that would not be possible,” returned Madame. “One
pair is all I have ready,” at which innocent reply Victor laughed
heartily, rather to the discomfiture of the good little woman, who
did not see the humor of it, and to turn the subject said to Lucie:
“Perhaps mademoiselle would like to see a small thing I am sending. If
monsieur can wait till I have put up the parcel.”
Victor assured her that time was no object just then. He would walk
in the garden, smoke a cigarette, exchange views with Monsieur Pierre
who perhaps would like to ask intimate questions about his son. Madame
beckoned to Lucie who went off with her to an inner room. From a drawer
Madame drew forth the socks and a little box which she opened and
handed to Lucie to examine.
“And what are these?” asked Lucie as she held up two queer little
figures, two or three inches long.
Madame smiled. “Those,” she said, “are Nenette and Rintintin. I am
sending them to my son.”
Lucie regarded them with a puzzled expression. “But why--are they, does
one make any use of them?”
Madame smiled. “You do not know? I must then tell you that Nenette and
Rintintin bring good luck. They protect a _poilu_ from the Zeppelins,
from the aircraft guns and all that. One must not ask for them. They
must be bestowed voluntarily. They must not be bought. A friend must
make them. They are little creatures of good luck.”
“How delightful! I wish I could make a pair for Victor.”
“Why not?”
“I could not without a pattern. With one to imitate I think I could,
and if not my friend Odette, who is so clever, could help me.”
Madame considered the situation for a moment. She sincerely wished
to aid Lucie in her project. A happy thought came to her. “When does
monsieur return?”
“To-morrow night.”
“Then, mademoiselle, I will tell you what we will do: You will take
charge of the package. We will tell monsieur that you keep it safe for
him and you can then make your little figures, to-morrow, we will say,
return them to the parcel here, and give it to monsieur before he
leaves. I am sure you will not forget to put them in with the socks and
the so short note I am about to write.”
“Oh, madame, how very kind!” cried Lucie. “I will take the utmost care,
I assure you, and will not fail to do up the parcel neatly and give it
to Victor, though”--She paused suddenly and a look of disappointment
came over her face as she stood looking down at the little figures she
held.
“What is it, _chérie_?” asked Madame solicitously.
“It is this, madame. I am afraid after all that I shall not be able to
make them, for you see we are refugees who have scarcely more than we
now wear. Where then would I get materials?”
“_Pauvre petite_, if that is all it is a matter soon mended. It takes
so very little, you see, and if you will allow me I shall be glad to
furnish what you may need. Should I not be permitted to do this much
for a comrade of my Honoré? It is a very small matter indeed.”
This delicate way of putting it quite eased Lucie’s mind, so she
accepted the offer as simply as possible and returned to find Paulette
taking a comfortable nap in a corner and Victor out in the garden with
Monsieur Pierre.
Victor settled the bill and the guests parted from their hosts with
many polite phrases on both sides. It was not within the limits of
Paulette’s curiosity to refrain from asking if it were not very
expensive, this meal, and they were barely out of hearing when she put
the question.
“But no,” Victor assured her. “If I were to tell you the price you
would at once establish yourself permanently at the restaurant Honoré.
It was in vain that I protested at the small price. Monsieur Pierre
insisted that it was his regular charge for a breakfast and nothing
would induce him to take a sou more. Did I think he would cheat a
friend and that friend his son’s comrade? Therefore you see there was
nothing left to say.”
“It may be his regular price,” commented Paulette shrewdly, “but I
venture to say that he has never before given this same menu.”
“Now then,” said Victor, “we have done our duty by my friend Honoré as
well as to our own appetites, there is then the next thing. Shall we go
back as we came, or shall we take the Metro after having had a walk in
the Bois which shall make us the more ready for our dinner in the city
when the time comes?”
“Another meal, Victor?” exclaimed Lucie.
“Why not? Doesn’t one dine on Sundays?”
“Yes, but not when one has had such a feast.”
“That is not the point. The point is that when I am here on leave I
intend to eat all I can, see all I can, enjoy myself to the limit of my
opportunities.”
Paulette lifted her eyebrows and gave her expressive shrug of the
shoulders. “Your opportunities must be very few, monsieur, if the
height of your enjoyment is in the society of an old peasant woman and
a little girl.”
“Would you have me spend all my time in making new acquaintances? Is
anything better than old friends? But you have not told me, Lucie,
which you prefer, the walk through the Bois or the return trip on the
river.”
Lucie looked down dubiously at her shoes now much the worse for wear.
“If my shoes will stand it I should prefer the walk, but the soles have
become very thin. You see the pair I had on when I left home gave out
before we reached Paris, and these are now the only ones I have.”
“We will try to avoid the damp places, and if we come to any path too
wet I can carry you over.”
“Monsieur!” exclaimed Paulette, quite scandalized.
“It would be quite easy for me, I can assure you,” responded Victor
imperturbably. “After the load a soldier must become accustomed to, the
burden of carrying Mademoiselle Lucie would be nothing.”
“_Coquin!_” cried Paulette, shaking her finger at him. “If any one must
lift mademoiselle it will be I.”
“Then we must try to avoid the wet places,” returned Victor.
They turned into a street which led them to the Bois de Boulogne.
Victor had provided himself with a little map which he consulted from
time to time, but in spite of it they did wander a little from their
route and actually did happen upon a moist by-path before which there
was a discussion.
Victor stooped down to examine it. “There is only one little place
where it is very wet,” he said, “and I can carry you over that, Lucie.”
“You will do nothing of the kind,” declared Paulette, bristling up. “If
mademoiselle cannot walk without getting her feet wet I will carry her.”
“And a pretty spectacle it would be,” protested Victor, “if any one
were to come along, to behold a soldier permitting a woman to do such a
thing. Are we men permitted to show no chivalry?”
“Zut!” exclaimed Paulette, snapping her fingers. “That for your
chivalry; it is all because you wish to have your own way.”
“La! La!” cried Lucie, “are you two going to spoil the day by
quarreling over me? No one shall carry me. I shall walk.”
“And get your feet wet,” grumbled Paulette.
“A happy thought!” cried Victor, whipping out his newspaper. “We will
arrange this. Step upon the paper, Lucie.” He spread the doubled paper
upon the spot, Lucie put out her little slim foot, stepped lightly and
was over without further ado. Victor picked up the paper, looked at the
footprint for a second, then with a chuckle, folded the paper, put it
back in his pocket and followed on.
Pom Pom, always in the lead, enjoyed his day quite as much as the rest,
at least he had not the somber thoughts which haunted Lucie during
every silence. To be sure these silences were not many, for the young
people chatted constantly while Pom Pom explored, dashed on ahead, lay
down to rest till the others came up, and was quite as tired a member
of the party as any when at last they stopped at a modest restaurant on
a side street.
“Another home of a comrade, Victor?” asked Lucie smiling.
“No, although the place was recommended by one. We shall not fare so
well as we did this morning, I fancy, but I have the password which
will probably serve to bring out such food as they have, and it will be
well cooked, though simple. Are you tired, Lucie, and are those shoes
entirely worn out?”
Lucie looked down at her right foot. “This one is the worst,” she
said; “the other will last, but it is unfortunate that one must have
two shoes.”
“That is one of those unpleasant truths we must face in this world,”
returned Victor, laughing. “You should be hungry after your long walk.”
“Yes, but I have walked farther,” returned Lucie, a shadow crossing her
face.
“But that is past,” said Victor cheerfully.
Lucie made no reply, but gave her attention to the soup which was now
served them, and the meal went on. It was not quite so lively as that
of the morning, for in the first place it was not so appetizing, and
they were all tired in the second place. Then, too, to-morrow would
be a working day, to which Paulette at least looked forward with no
pleasure. It promised, however, a pleasanter prospect to Lucie who
anticipated the agreeable task of fashioning a Nenette and Rintintin
for Victor. She looked down at the little parcel which she had placed
on the table beside her.
“You’d better give that to me now,” said Victor.
Lucie shook her head. “No, I promised Madame I would take charge of it
till you were ready with your farewells.”
“She seems to have very little confidence in me,” remarked Victor.
“It might be for that reason or it might be for some other,” returned
Lucie mysteriously.
“Are you inviting me to guess?”
“Perhaps--but no, I do not wish you to. If there is another reason I
will tell you when you come to go.”
“More and more mysterious. Very well, you must not forget to tell me.”
Lucie knew that this was not likely. She held fast to the little parcel
all the way home, and could scarcely wait to show the tiny figures to
Odette after Victor had left. “You will help me, Odette?”
“To be sure, and perhaps I can make a pair, too. There might be a
soldier to whom I could give them,” Odette returned. “To be sure I know
of no one now, but he might come my way, and it is just as well to be
prepared.” She laughed gleefully.
Lucie was very impatient till the morning’s work was out of the way,
Paulette off for the day, and Odette ready to sit down with her. “It is
like playing with dolls again, isn’t it?” she said.
“But it is much more to the purpose,” declared Odette, sorting out the
materials.
“There appears to be quite enough for two sets,” said Lucie, “so we can
divide, which will be very nice. You can have half to pay for helping
me.”
“But you might want another pair, for your father, for instance.”
Lucie had not thought of this, and was not quite sure whether her
father would be frivolous enough to appreciate the attention. She
considered the matter while Odette busied herself in selecting what was
needed for Nenette and what for Rintintin. After a moment she looked
up, bunching the stuffs in her nimble little fingers. “These will be
more than enough,” she decided. “I think with economy one could get out
another couple.”
“That would be fine,” cried Lucie, “so let us begin. How should one do
it?”
Odette deftly started to pucker the stuff into shape, and before long
Nenette was called into existence, then Rintintin was soon in condition
to be given his name.
“Aren’t they precious?” exclaimed Lucie, dangling them before her. “I
shall really get too fond of them and shall want to keep them. It is
just as well that Victor is going to-night or I might be tempted.”
“We will make the others and can keep at least one couple.”
“Until your soldier appears and then they must be given up. I shall
send mine to papa at once. We must show them to Paulette. Shall you let
your aunt see yours?”
“She would not be interested.”
Lucie hesitated before she asked a question which was on the end of her
tongue, but at last she did say: “This aunt, Odette, is she kind to
you?”
“She does not beat me,” replied Odette with a little wry smile, “and I
am grateful to her for letting me stay with her when I was left with
no one. I think that perhaps she is sorry that she allowed me, for it
is very hard to find food for all. The ladies pay me for knitting the
socks, but there is not any too much of that work to do, and I wish I
might go back to the country. I am strong enough to work in the fields
and it would be better than this.”
“That is what Paulette says. I wish, myself, that we were all there.
Look at this second Rintintin, Odette. Isn’t he a droll fellow; I think
I like him better than the first.”
In due course of time the freakish little figures were finished. Odette
carried hers away. Lucie danced hers before the eyes of Pom Pom who
tried to snap them up, then they were put away till Paulette should
return and the business of dinner should be over.
“Aren’t they funny, Paulette?” asked Lucie as she displayed the
fantastic little creatures. “This is what Odette and I have been doing
to-day, making these.”
“Have you then gone back to playing with dolls?”
“Oh, no, no. You don’t understand. These are Nenette and Rintintin.
Madame Blondot told me of them yesterday and gave me the material for
making them. She has sent a pair to her son. One makes them, you see,
to give to a _poilu_ for good luck. They carry good fortune, Madame
said, protect from danger. They must be given voluntarily. The soldier
does not ask for them or that takes away the charm. So then, these are
for Victor and these for papa.”
Paulette examined them with interest. She was as full of superstitions
as most peasant folk. “One never can tell,” she remarked, “a little
thing that seems ridiculous, a horseshoe, for instance, brings good
luck. It is worth while not to pass by anything. I have no capacity for
making such things; if I had--”
She paused but Lucie understood that she wished that her boy might have
two of the farcical little mascots. He shall have, Lucie told herself,
remembering those Odette was keeping for some soldier. Why not Jean?
Then came Victor to make his adieux and to get the little parcel to
take to Honoré. “It seems much smaller than it did,” he said as Lucie
handed it to him.
She laughed. “And yet I have not abstracted the socks. Here also,
Victor, is something for you; Nenette and Rintintin.”
“Ah-h!” Victor took them with a pleased look. “You made them for me?”
“I made them, though Odette helped; she is so clever, you know. They
bear a charm, as perhaps you have heard. They will keep danger from
you.”
“They will do something else; they will remind me of my little friend,
Lucie, who has taken the trouble to make them for me.” He fastened them
to his coat. “I made inquiries about your father to-day and learn that
he has been removed to another place, a chateau, where he, with other
convalescents, will remain till they can return to their regiments. I
have written to him, and have asked him to communicate with you as soon
as possible. Here is his address.”
“I am glad, so glad. A thousand thanks, dear Victor, for doing this.
But my mother, my mother?”
Victor shook his head sadly. “I am sorry, but there is no news there.
But cheer up, dear little Lucie, do not look so mournful. Any day you
may have news of her. In this war surprises are what one must expect.
You will write to me and tell me how you prosper?”
“Oh, yes, and you?”
“Will do the same. I shall cherish Nenette and Rintintin as if they
were my own children. I came only to say good-by, for I must soon be
getting off.”
“It is sad that you must go.”
“But has it not been a wonderful holiday? When I get another we will
celebrate again. Adieu! Adieu! et _bon chance_!”
“_Bon chance! Bon chance!_ Victor. Adieu! Adieu!” from Lucie.
“Adieu, monsieur. _Que Dieu vous soit en aide_,” from Paulette. And
Victor was clattering down the stairs and out into the dim streets.
But the small shadow that followed him a trifle in the rear was not
cast by the bobbing forms of Nenette and Rintintin.