_LE-COIN-DU-PRES_
It was a large farm, as farms go in that part of the world, and had
been in the family of Guerin for many years. The head of the family
in former days had occupied the white chateau on the top of the
hill, but that had long since passed away from the present branch of
whom there were left only Madame Guerin, her grandson Victor, and
another grandson, one Gaspard, the son of Madame Guerin’s eldest
child. Gaspard, too, was in the army and was with the troops at the
Dardanelles. Annette spoke of this cousin as a _beau gar_. He was still
at home when Annette arrived at the farm of _Le-Coin-du-Pres_.
“Is he as nice as Victor?” asked Lucie as the two girls were sitting
together in the twilight.
“He is better looking, I think, and older. He will inherit the farm, of
course.”
“And Victor?”
“Oh, Victor will arrive. He is of good stuff, although in danger of
being spoiled by his grandmother who thinks the world of him.”
“And which do you like better of these two cousins, Annette?”
Annette put her head to one side, and said quite sedately. “One should
not say which of two young men one prefers. It should be left to her
parents.”
Lucie’s lips parted in surprise. “Did you think I meant in that sense?
I was thinking of them as your cousins only.”
“Not such very, very near cousins; we have not the same grandmother.”
“Oh!” Lucie was rather startled. Who had been putting notions in
Annette’s head since she saw her last?
Then Victor came up. “I have been looking for you two,” he said,
seating himself on the bench by Annette’s side and tossing a spray of
blossoms into Lucie’s lap. “The first of the season,” he announced.
“How do you like _Coin-du-Pres_, Lucie?”
“I think it is lovely. I like this rambling old house and the garden.
The garden is nothing as yet, I suppose.”
“In another month you will begin to see its glory. Paulette and Odette,
they are content?”
“Paulette doesn’t say much; you know her way, but she remarked
to me that at last one could have a place to put things. She has
been pottering around the little house, giving Odette all sorts of
directions, and planning where they shall put this and what they will
have to eat when the time comes, so I really think she is very happy.
As for Odette, she is so pleased to be in the country again that
nothing else counts. She has been so ordered about and scolded by that
old aunt of hers that I suppose Paulette seems like a very angel of
disposition, though I should scarcely call her so. It was good of your
grandmother to let them have the little house; it will mean home to
them.”
“That was Victor’s doing,” Annette spoke up. “He suggested it, and had
Jules get it in order; that was one of the things he was particular to
write about.”
As if he had not heard, Victor began whistling a gay little tune.
Then he remarked: “Four more days and my leave will be up. The next
time I shall come here to spend all of my _permission_; it should be
in August, eight days every four months for the men in the trenches.”
Alas, who could tell what might happen before then? Certainly if Victor
had any misgivings he would not have said so. “To-morrow,” he added,
“we must show Lucie all over the farm. Come, let us go in. It is
getting damp.”
They went in to where, in the lamp-lighted room, the older people were
gathered; Mons. Le Brun poring over the newspapers Victor had brought,
Madame his wife knitting, her delicate, little old face outlined
against the crimson back of a big chair, and her small nervous hands
busy with her work. Madame Guerin sat where she could gather up the
papers as her brother-in-law had finished with them. A big, sleepy cat
was curled up in her lap--she did not care for dogs--and her bright
eyes scanned the columns with sharp eagerness. She was neither so small
nor so frail-looking as her sister, and appeared a person of decision
and energy.
Annette and Lucie seated themselves upon a sofa. Victor sauntered over
to the bookcase, and began examining the volumes.
“Have you nothing to do, Annette?” Madame Guerin inquired presently.
“No, _tante_, I don’t seem to have,” replied Annette.
“Then you’d better find something. I dislike to see a girl of your age
sitting with her hands in her lap.”
“Oh, do let her alone, Clothilde,” Madame Le Brun protested peevishly.
“She may do as she pleases this evening when her friend has just come.”
“You spoil her, Marcelline,” declared the elder sister.
“Not more than you do Victor.”
Madame Guerin bridled. “Not more than I do? You can say that when you
know that Victor is here on his _permission_, that he suffers in the
trenches and that nothing should be denied him? What would you? Is a
soldier fighting for his country to be treated like an idle girl?”
“Here, here, stop your quarreling, you two old children,” spoke up
Victor. “I will spend my _permission_ in Paris the next time, if you
begin to wrangle about me. Grandmother, may I have this?” He held up a
small book.
“What is it?” She turned her head, at the same time pulling the cat
farther upon her lap from which he seemed in danger of slipping.
“It is selections from the discourses of Epictetus. It belonged to my
father.”
“It is not one of those objectionable books unfit for a young man to
read, and not to be mentioned before young ladies?”
Victor laughed and opened the book at random. “Listen to this and then
you can judge if it be improper. ‘What matters to me anything that
happens while I have greatness of soul?’” He turned over a few pages
and again read: “Shall not the fact that God is our Maker, and Father,
and Guardian free us from griefs and terrors?”
“You may keep the book, my child,” agreed the grandmother, little
knowing under what circumstances she would see it again.
Victor slipped it into his pocket and went over to where the two girls
were whispering together. He sat down by them and they played some
foolish games, smothering frequent bursts of laughter, till bedtime
came. Then Lucie was taken up to a little clean bedroom, very tiny, but
quite comfortable and fragrant with the sweet spring odors. Annette
was no farther off than the next room, but Paulette was separated from
her by sweeps of grass, garden paths and rows of apple trees. The girl
felt a little lonely, in spite of Annette. She wondered if she would be
able to avoid Madame Guerin’s angles and Madame Le Brun’s exactions. Of
Mons. Le Brun she had no fear. He was her grandfather’s friend and in
her last waking thoughts the dear grandfather had place.
Before the end of the week Victor departed, and Lucie missed him.
Always he was able to smooth out the wrinkles, she told herself as she
sighed. Paulette and Odette were working in the fields and she saw not
much of them. They were tired at night and were at their labors before
she was up in the morning. Madame Le Brun, while insisting that Annette
should not be idle, was more lenient to Lucie, over whom she considered
that she had no rights beyond seeing that she was comfortable. So Lucie
cast about for something to do, and finally consulted Mons. Le Brun.
“What should you like to do?” he asked.
“I think it would please my parents if I were to study, but it is hard
to do that alone.”
Mons. Le Brun tapped the ends of his fingers together as he considered
the question. After a while he said: “How should you like that I teach
you Latin?”
“And I could teach you English?”
Mons. Le Brun laughed. “Very well, but I do not promise that I am a
very brilliant pupil.”
“Annette already knows a little that I have taught her,” Lucie told
him. “I think it would be well for her to join us, then she could study
Latin with me and English with you.”
Again the old man laughed. “Poor Annette will then be doing double
work, but never mind, it need not be too hard for her. If I get into
difficulties as teacher I will go to the good _curé_ who will help me
out.”
So the little class was begun. Madame Le Brun and Madame Guerin nearly
had a pitched battle over it. One objected to the studies taking place
in the morning, for it was then that Annette should be learning to
sew, to preserve, to do various household tasks. The other objected
to the afternoon because it interfered with the hour when her husband
read aloud to her, but finally the morning had it, because it was the
man who preferred that time of day. Therefore almost every morning
after this would be seen three heads bending over books and papers,
the blossoming apple trees a background for Annette’s dark locks,
Monsieur’s gray ones and Lucie’s sunny brown ones. They were never
arduous tasks and judging from the frequent laughter they were often
amusing.
News from the outside world reached them but slowly. The battle of
Ypres was going on. The Germans failed to pierce the British lines, but
Madame Guerin sighed and shook her head at every fresh sacrifice of
troops. The shocking news of the _Lusitania_ tragedy sobered every one.
The German successes gave a harder, more determined expression to every
face.
It was one glorious day in May that the bolt struck nearer home. The
morning lessons were over. Lucie was lingering under the tree where
the chairs and table were set, when she saw Odette running up from
Paulette’s little house. She arrived breathless, agitated. “Lucie,” she
cried panting, “where is madame?”
“In the house, I think. She came in from the garden some time ago.”
“There is some one to see her. And, Lucie, go, go yourself to Paulette;
she wants you; she needs you.”
In alarm Lucie ran down the lane, leaving Odette to find Madame Guerin.
The door of Paulette’s little house stood open. Lucie did not stop
to knock but entered at once. She saw a man with Paulette; both were
bending over something which lay on a chair. “What is it?” exclaimed
Lucie in alarm. The man turned around, showing a haggard face. “Jean!”
cried the girl.
He stepped back to allow her to come up to the chair from which
suddenly came a faintly pitiful attempt at a bark. Lucie flung herself
on her knees. “Pom Pom,” she whispered, “dear little Pom Pom. Oh, what
is this that has happened? Give him to me! Give him to me, Paulette. He
will like being in my lap.”
Paulette gently lifted the little creature from the chair. “He appears
to understand,” she said, as Pom Pom feebly tried to lick Lucie’s hand.
As Paulette uncovered him, Lucie perceived that two of his legs were
bound up, and that he could not move without pain. The tears flowed
down her cheeks. “Poor, dear one,” she crooned, gently stroking the
soft little head. Pom Pom’s eyes showed that he understood and again he
sought to lick her hand.
Then Madame Guerin came hurrying in. “What is all this?” she asked. “A
sick dog? I don’t know a thing about dogs. If it were a cat I might
know what to do.” Then something in Jean’s face made her stop short.
“Who is this?” she asked, “and why does he bring the dog here?”
“I am sorry, madame,” began Jean in his slow way, “but I am the bearer
of ill news.” He stopped and looked helplessly at his mother.
“Who are you and whose dog is that?” asked madame sharply.
“It is my son Jean,” said Paulette gravely. “The dog is Monsieur
Victor’s, and Jean has brought him to us whom he knows and loves.”
Madame clenched her hands till they showed the strain. “Victor?” she
whispered. “He is not--not--killed?” Her voice rose shrilly.
Lucie, too, made a sudden movement, causing Pom Pom to utter a faint
moan. She gently touched his head and sat very still.
“He is not killed, no, madame, but he is very seriously wounded,” Jean
replied.
Madame recovered her poise. “Sit down, if you please, and tell me all.
You look tired. Paulette, have you seen that he has food and drink?”
She drew up a chair and motioned Jean to a seat. “If you are not too
tired will you please tell me,” she went on.
“It was at Arras,” Jean began, “the battle there, you understand.
Monsieur was wounded. Night came. No one knew that he lay there. There
were so many, you see, and these others were plainly alive. The little
dog knew, oh, yes, he knew that Monsieur Victor was not dead, and he
went out to find him. It was night. No one saw him go. He returned. Oh,
yes, he returned wounded. The little dog, you understand, was wounded.
It was as he was coming back to tell us. He managed to arrive. Figure
to yourself, madame, the courage. It was Monsieur Honoré, his friend,
that he made understand. We went out. We searched, and we found him
there so sorely wounded, that he could not move. Monsieur Victor it
was, and we brought him back. He is at a hospital.”
“Yes, yes,” whispered madame. “Will he--do they think he will live?”
Jean shook his head doubtfully. “One cannot tell. He was far spent when
I saw him.”
“You saw him then, afterward? After his wounds had been dressed.”
“Yes, madame.”
“He could speak? He spoke to you?”
“He sent for me. It was about the little dog. He understood that it
was the little dog. He was very weak, but he could tell me his wish
that I would bring the little dog to Mademoiselle Lucie. He told his
colonel--I think it was his colonel, and he said I should go. Monsieur
le Capitaine, mademoiselle’s father, was there also. They said I should
come, and I came. I was afraid the little dog would die before I
arrived.”
The tears were falling from Lucie’s eyes upon the head of the dog in
her lap. “Poor Pom Pom. Dear Pom Pom,” she repeated over and over.
Madame Guerin came and knelt by Lucie. “And I said I did not care for
dogs,” she murmured. “If we can but save the life of this one, never
will dog have a better home, more care.”
Lucie looked up fiercely. “But, madame, you do not understand. He is
mine. Pom Pom is mine. It is I who will care for him. It is because
Victor had given him to me that he sends him back. Next to Victor--Oh,
yes, he loved him best; I do not deny that, but next to him he loves
me.”
Madame arose without another word. She stood for a moment looking down
at Lucie and the suffering dog, now lying very quietly. Then she turned
to Jean. “When do you return?” she asked.
“To-morrow, madame.”
“I will go with you,” she said, and left the room.
When she reached the house Mons. Le Brun came out to meet her. “This is
sad news, Clothilde,” he said. “A message has just come.”
“I have had the message from another source,” she said. “I go to him
to-morrow.”
For hours Lucie sat there. Jean and his mother talked in low voices
outside. Annette came and begged to take Lucie’s place, but she only
shook her head. “He would rather stay with me,” she said. “He knows me
best.”
Odette stole in and out, stopping to ask if she could bring water,
milk, food. She crouched close to Lucie and they talked of the day
they first met. “It was then I was trying to make a _poilu_ of Pom Pom,
do you remember?” Lucie asked. “He became a true _poilu_, the brave
little man.” She bent her head and softly kissed him above the eyes.
“He was so funny when he tried to sing,” Odette remarked reminiscently.
“He has done many things for a little dog. One would not think he could
be so human. Put him in my lap, Lucie. You must be so tired. Perhaps he
will not mind.”
“But he seems fairly comfortable now. I am afraid if I stir he will
suffer again. I will keep him so for a while yet.”
After a while Paulette came in. “This will not do, my child,” she
began; “you will wear yourself out. The poor little one will be quite
as comfortable on a bed I shall make for him.”
“No, no, I would rather stay. What is this compared to his sufferings,
compared to what our brave men suffer? I can stand it. When I can no
longer I will give him up.”
The story had gone around of the dog’s devotion to his master and those
working on the place flocked to see him, but Paulette would not have
one of them inside. “He would be better off if they put him out of his
misery,” muttered old Jules.
“What’s that you are saying?” questioned Paulette. “What do you know
about it? The creature may get well.”
Jules shrugged his shoulders and walked away. Then Marie came
whispering, then young Michel, very much interested, as what boy would
not be? It was Michel who offered to go for the doctor. “He will come,
even if he is not a beast doctor,” he declared. “Oh yes, he will come
when I tell him.”
Paulette looked at Jean. Should she allow this?
“Let him come,” advised Jean. “He may not be able to do much good, but
he can perhaps give something that will cause sleep.”
So off Michel went to the village and came back with the old doctor who
very tenderly examined Pom Pom, and then shook his head. “He cannot
recover,” was his opinion. He looked sharply at Lucie. “My child,” he
inquired, “how long have you been sitting there?”
“I don’t know,” returned Lucie, “but I do not want to move while Pom
Pom needs me.”
Without further words the doctor lifted the little dog and laid him on
the bed Paulette had prepared for him. “He will be better off there,”
declared the doctor, “and you can sit by him. Brave little dog, I will
not let you suffer.” Pom Pom moaned a little as the doctor gave the
quieting drug, but was soon quiet again.
Lucie rose, feeling stiff from so long sitting in a cramped position.
The doctor stood looking thoughtfully at the little dog, now very
quiet. Paulette followed the doctor to the door to which he beckoned
her. “There is about one chance in a hundred,” he told her. “I think
there is a bit of shrapnel for which I should have to probe; otherwise
blood poison will set in, if it has not done so already, and the
little chap will be done for. The little girl will be worn out. Hers
is a beautiful devotion only surpassed by that of the dog. If she will
consent to allowing me to take the dog home with me where I have the
necessary appliances, I will do my very best for him. Explain to her
that it is the only chance, and that I hardly think he can be saved,
but in my opinion it is worth while to try.”
Paulette returned to the room and reported what the doctor had said. “I
cannot bear to let him go when I may never see him again,” Lucie spoke
distressedly.
“But, my child, it must be very soon that you do part from him unless
the doctor makes this effort.”
“I know, I know,” acknowledged Lucie.
“It is very kind of this good doctor. It is extraordinary that he
should be willing to do this for a dumb beast,” Paulette argued.
“It will hurt him dreadfully, won’t it?” said Lucie, lifting tearful
eyes to the doctor who now came back into the room.
“I shall put him under ether, and he should not suffer so much as he
has been doing.”
“Shall you have to keep him long?”
“If he improves I think he can return in a week, perhaps.”
“If he does not improve?”
“One cannot tell. Be assured that I shall not permit him to suffer
needlessly, and that I shall do my utmost for him, as I would for any
other soldier of France.”
Lucie looked up gratefully. “You are very good, and I trust you. I
believe that you can cure him, so please take him.”
“Do not expect the impossible, my child, but what can be done shall be.
It is a small service to give a hero such as he is.”
Lucie bent over to take a last look at Pom Pom. He lay very quiet. She
went to the door and called Michel who was waiting to hear what the
doctor might say: “Michel,” she said, “please go to the house and ask
Mlle. Annette to give you the little flag which is pinned up in my
room.”
Michel sped away, and returned in a twinkling with the flag. He
followed her into the house and watched while she spread the colors of
France over the little dog.
“It is the last thing I can do, and I think Victor would like it,” she
told the doctor. “If he dies will you please let him be buried with it?”
The doctor nodded and turned away biting his lip. He was used to
pathetic scenes but this was out of the ordinary. Paulette brought a
basket and they lifted Pom Pom and his bed into it. Jean carried it
out to the doctor’s gig. As the doctor drove off Jean stood at salute
and Michel, not to be outdone, followed his example. The daylight was
fading. The rosy flush of apple blossoms became brighter because of the
rose of sunset sky. As the doctor drove out of sight Lucie gave a quick
sob and buried her face on Paulette’s shoulder. “Is there never to be
anything but unhappiness in the world?” she sobbed.
Paulette drew her gently into the house, motioning to the others to
keep away.
Michel turned to Odette. “I think it was fine to cover him with the
flag,” he said. “He is as great a hero as any.”
“It was also a beautiful thought of Mademoiselle Lucie’s,” said Jean.
“I shall tell the _copains_.”
Odette nodded. She could not trust herself to speak. Michel slipped
away to his home, and the brooding, sweet-scented May night settled
down upon the quiet farm.
In the house they were talking in subdued tones. Madame Guerin was
making her plans for leaving with Jean. She sat by the table, when
Lucie came in, looking very pale and worn. She had shed her tears, and
now there was only a dull ache in her heart.
Madame looked up as she entered. “You are utterly worn out, you poor
little one. She must have some orange-flower water, Paulette. I think
you did not hear about the little book, Lucie, that little book which
Victor asked for the last time he was here. Jean has brought it to me.
It is very precious, for it saved Victor’s life. See where the hole is.”
Lucie took the little blood-stained book. It had a stout leather
binding, now torn and defaced. It brought the horror of battlefields
very near. She laid down the book with a shiver, then went over to
the sofa. It could not be that Victor, always so gay and joyous,
should be perhaps dying. How well she remembered his reading from that
same war-torn volume: “Shall not the fact that God is our Maker, and
Father, and Guardian free us from griefs and terrors?” No, she would
not believe that he would not get well. She had never believed that
she would not see her mother again and she would have the utmost faith
that, too, she would see Victor and Pom Pom.
Paulette came in with the orange-flower water. She drank it obediently.
Annette, her eyes red with crying, came to her. “Grandmother has gone
to bed with a nervous headache,” she told her aunt. “She is all upset
because of all that has happened, but most, I think, because of your
going away.”
“That is Marcelline all over,” returned Madame. “I should think if any
one were to be upset it should be I.”
“I suppose you have no idea of how long you will be away?” remarked
Annette.
“Of course not. How can I tell? I wish you would not bring up such
subjects, Annette.” Then Annette understood the dread which possessed
her aunt, and the effort she was making to be calm and brave.
Annette drew closer to Lucie. “Dear Lucie, dear Lucie,” she murmured,
“you are all tired out. Come, let us go to bed. Grandfather is
upstairs, and grandmother went long ago.”
So they went upstairs together, leaving Madame Guerin alone with her
fears and the little stained book.