GASPARD
It was after Madame Guerin and Jean had gone that Gaspard arrived.
A tall, bronzed young man he was, graver than Victor, very gentle,
very quiet. Lucie found him polite, but it was very evident that he
preferred Annette to her. The two spent much time together and Lucie
felt rather lonely. Without Madame Guerin’s brisk presence the house
appeared very still. Upon leaving, madame had asked Paulette to have an
eye to matters domestic, not trusting entirely to the judgment of the
two young maids.
The first report of Victor informed them that he was hanging between
life and death, barely holding his own, yet this much was more than had
been anticipated and every one was more hopeful. Pom Pom, too, had come
through his ordeal satisfactorily, and while the doctor could not, yet,
give much encouragement he did not discourage.
For some reason Odette placed the two in the same balance. “If one
recovers the other will,” she declared to Lucie.
“Why do you say that?” Lucie asked. “How do you know, Odette?”
“I do not know it; I only feel it. Something tells me so.”
“I wish the something would tell you that they are sure to get well,”
responded Lucie.
Since coming to the country and spending so much time out-of-doors
Odette had grown taller and stronger. She was naturally pale but
plentiful food had given her a healthier look, and the haunting look
of despair was gradually leaving her eyes. She was industrious to the
last degree, and was popular with those working both indoors and out.
Paulette was devoted to her, and once had said to Lucie: “She is such
a child as I should wish my little Rose Marie to have been if she
had lived, my Rose Marie who died when she was but three years old.”
And Lucie considered that the greatest compliment that Odette could
have received. The little peasant, however, showed her pride by never
seeking Lucie, but was always delighted if Lucie sought her, as she did
on those days when Gaspard seemed to monopolize Annette. The latter now
was seldom ready to study in the morning. She would sit with her sewing
in the living-room, Madame Le Brun a watchful chaperon, while Gaspard
told of his experiences in the war.
Sometimes Lucie would listen for a while, but there was never as much
laughter as during the hour when Lucie stumbling over her Latin nouns
and Mons. Le Brun struggling with the English pronunciation, made
merry. Monsieur always considered it a great joke to call Lucie “Mees,”
and to act the part of a little boy, so if neither one made much
progress at least they heartened one another and made this morning hour
a pleasant one.
It was one day when talking to Odette that Lucie made a discovery.
Michel had just brought the daily report from the good old doctor.
The boy never failed to do this errand which he voluntarily took upon
himself. Pom Pom was better, a mere trifle better. It might not be
permanent. Another day would show, perhaps.
“That is good to hear,” cried Lucie, her face beaming, as Odette gave
her the news just learned from Michel. “Now we shall see, Odette, if
you are a true prophetess, when the next news comes from Victor. If he
is also better I shall think that something which tells you things has
spoken the truth. I wish you did not work in the fields till so late,
Odette.”
“But it is right that I should.”
“I suppose so, but it leaves me without a companion much of the time.
When Gaspard goes I suppose I shall see something of Annette again. Of
course it is her duty to entertain him, for Madame Le Brun cannot take
responsibilities, and in Madame Guerin’s absence Annette is really the
_chatelaine_.”
“There is Mons. Le Brun.”
“Yes, to be sure, but those two cannot spend all the time together.
I think Gaspard really prefers the others, when it comes to that. It
seems rather peculiar, too.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Annette is a dear girl, and I like to be with her myself
because I, too, am a girl, but Gaspard is a grown-up man. He is three
years older than Victor.”
“And you think grown-up men do not care for the society of young
ladies? I never heard that before.” There was a little mocking look in
Odette’s eyes.
“Young ladies, yes, but Annette is not a young lady.”
“I think you told me she is sixteen.”
“You are sixteen but you are not a young lady.”
“In two years she will be a young lady; she will be of marriageable
age. She is not too young to be fiancée.”
Lucie looked at Odette, for a moment taken aback. “Do you really think
they are fianced? I never in the world thought of that. I mean to ask
her. No, on second thoughts I would rather ask Mons. Le Brun. I can be
more confidential with him these days than with Annette. I think if it
is so that she should have told me, old friends as we are.”
“It may not be arranged; it may be only going to be.”
Lucie drew a long sigh. “When my friends begin to grow up like this I
feel very queer and out of place. It makes me want my mother.”
“It does make one feel that way,” returned Odette.
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know; I only judge so.”
“One of those times when something tells you,” said Lucie, laughing.
“Well, Odette, don’t you grow up and leave me.”
“I shall always wish to be near you whether I am grown up or not,”
returned Odette diplomatically.
“Well, I am going to hunt up Grandfather Le Brun. I know I can get him
to tell me anything. _Au revoir_, Odette.”
“You will tell me what you learn?”
“If I may,” Lucie answered back and then ran on to the house, to find
Mons. Le Brun smoking under the trees.
“Vell, Mees,” he greeted her, “’ow do you do?”
“Very well, sir.”
“Ver-r-ee vell, seer,” he tried to repeat.
“Very well, not ‘very vell,’ and you don’t say ‘_seer_,’ you say
‘sir.’”
“‘_Bien._’ I say ‘Ver-ree ou-ell, sur.’ Correct, no?”
“Much better, very much better. Monsieur, I want you to tell me
something. How do people act when they are in love?”
“_Mon Dieu!_ She wishes to conjugate the verb _amo_. It is so long,
mademoiselle, since I played the young lover I should scarcely know. I
love; you love; he loves; that is how it goes. But why do you ask? Are
you perhaps falling in love, with the doctor is it? There is no one
else but Gaspard, and Gaspard--”
“Exactly; it is Gaspard whom I mean.”
“But, my child--” The old man became so agitated that he dropped his
stick, which Lucie hastened to pick up. “Gaspard--your parents; you are
so young, moreover Gaspard--” He paused helplessly.
Lucie burst into a peal of laughter. “You didn’t suppose I was talking
about Gaspard and myself?” She laughed again.
He shrugged his shoulders. “They are impossible, these females. One
cannot tell what they mean. You ask me about love. You mention Gaspard.
What am I to think?”
“Dear monsieur, forgive me. It is all my fault. Come let us sit down
under our own tree of the morning study and I will explain. I perceive
that this Gaspard prefers Annette’s society to yours or mine, and I
begin to wonder. I forget that Annette will so soon be grown up;
when I do realize I see that it is quite possible that they should be
fianced, but Annette who has always confided in me suddenly tells me
nothing, so I come to you.”
“You admit it would be a very good arrangement. Annette will have a
respectable _dot_; Gaspard will inherit this place. We are old, my
wife and I. We wish to see Annette well settled. I tell you this in
confidence, because of my old friendship for your grandfather and of
your friendship for Annette. Nothing can be positively settled until
Madame Guerin returns, but then--we know her wishes upon this subject
and so you may guess how it will turn out.”
Lucie lost no time in telling Odette what she had found out. “You are
the wisest creature, Odette,” she said. “I should never in the world
have thought of this by myself. I don’t see how you know so much. I am
with Annette much more than you and yet I didn’t suspect.”
Odette smiled a little demure smile. She was much more sedate in these
days than she had been in the city. Probably she worked off her surplus
energy in the fields. “One sees some things, hears some things, guesses
the rest,” she replied.
“Well, your eyes must be sharper than mine. I confess I go about
dreaming sometimes, and that I suppose you do not. I look about at
things, you at people.”
“And things too.”
That night as Lucie was making ready for bed she heard Annette stirring
in the next room. The night was calm and bright. The nightingales
were singing their hearts out. All sorts of sweet odors were borne in
through the windows; the scent of lilac blooms, of apple blossoms, of
young green leaves, of newly worked earth. Lucie tapped at Annette’s
door and at the invitation to enter she went in. Annette, in her
dressing gown, was kneeling by the open window. Lucie knelt beside her.
Neither girl spoke for a time, then Lucie murmured: “How unspeakably
peaceful and lovely. Does it seem possible that not so many miles away
there are terrible things going on?”
“That is what troubles one,” returned Annette. “In a few days there
will be another for us to be anxious about.”
“You mean Gaspard? I know. Your grandfather told me. Do you then care
so much for him, Annette?”
“He is my cousin.”
“Of course; I know that, but do you like thinking of him as your
fiancé?”
“Oh, yes, much better than of one I did not know. He is good and kind.”
“But are you really in love with him?”
“Of course I shall be when he is my husband. It would be quite out of
place to say so now.”
“Then I know you are not. I shall never, never consent to marry any one
that I do not truly love. My mother chose my father and he chose her.
They were madly in love.”
“That happens, of course it happens, but quite the same one’s family
make the selection first.”
“It did not happen so in the case of my parents. My mother was
traveling in France. She met my father at the house of a friend, and
at once they wished to meet again, and so they did, many times. Then
my father went over to America and asked her parents, and they were
married.”
“That is not the way of my parents. It was all arranged before they met
at all. I think I am very fortunate that it is Gaspard who is selected
for me by my grandparents. I like him and he likes me.”
To Lucie’s mind this was a very mild way of putting it. Her imagination
rioted in more romantic paths.
“Figure to yourself,” Annette went on, “how it would be if your
parents were to come to you and say: ‘We have chosen a fiancé for you,
an estimable young man’; suppose we say it is Victor; I mention him
because he is one you know very well; would you be so foolish as to
declare that you would not marry him just because you were not wildly
in love with him, a young man of good character, similar tastes, in
your own station in life and good prospects? No, no, Lucie, it is
because you are so young and inexperienced that you think so. You will
change your mind when you are older.”
“When I am as old as my very experienced and mature friend Annette,”
returned Lucie, laughing. “Well, Annette, if you are satisfied that is
all I am concerned with. I was afraid maybe you were not and that made
me unhappy. I do hope Gaspard is good enough for you.”
Annette turned around in surprise. “Good enough? Of course he is,” she
exclaimed. “But, Lucie, do not take everything for granted; there can
be no actual betrothal until Aunt Clothilde returns. She is coming
soon, we hope, and then Gaspard’s leave expires, and he goes back.”
The thought which was in Lucie’s heart she did not express. Suppose
Gaspard should fall in the war, what then? She gave Annette a
good-night kiss and went back to her room.
A few days later Madame Guerin returned. Jules went to meet her in the
old cabriolet, but it was not Jules who came back with her in it. He
walked instead. Lucie, Annette and Gaspard walked down between the rows
of apple trees to meet the returned madame. “But that is not Jules
with her,” said Annette suddenly.
Lucie turned her eyes from the drifting blossoms, gave one quick
exclamation and darted forward, all her heart in her cry of: “Papa!
Papa!”
The gig stopped. Lucie clambered in to cover her father’s face with
kisses, and to murmur little ecstatic words of endearment. Then she
climbed out again, running alongside till the old vehicle reached the
house. In her joy of the moment she even forgot to ask about Victor,
and it was not till Gaspard made the inquiry that she learned how he
was.
“He is slowly improving,” madame told them. “They do not know yet how
much he may be disfigured or whether he will ever regain the use of his
right arm. It is a long slow road he must go, if indeed he recovers,
yet there is hope and that is more than at first was given. That I
should live to see him lying there like that! I could do no good, they
told me. It is all a matter of time and of skilled attention from the
doctors. If there is any complication, any change for the worse, they
will notify me.”
“But papa was as badly wounded, weren’t you, papa?” Lucie spoke up.
“And you see he is quite well again. I know Victor will be, too.”
“It is cheering to have you say so,” responded madame, nodding to her,
and continuing her way toward the house, the others following with
her various bags and bundles, Lucie hanging on her father’s arm and
bringing up the rear.
Mons. Le Brun came to the door and looked out to see what was causing
all the talk and excitement. He stopped short, looked puzzled, then
hurried forward with both hands outstretched. “Marcel, my dear Marcel,”
he cried. “This is a surprise and a great joy.” Then he embraced him,
kissed him on each cheek, and began talking and questioning at such a
rate that Lucie had no chance at all.
She took this opportunity to run around to tell Paulette and Odette the
news, creating quite the sensation she desired. “_Mon Dieu!_” exclaimed
Paulette. “It is your father, Mons. Marcel? How is this? Does he look
well? Does he remain long?”
“Come and see for yourself,” Lucie urged. They started out toward the
front of the house but met Mons. Du Bois halfway, for he had missed
Lucie and had come in search of her.
“Running away so soon from your father, my daughter?” he said.
“Oh, no, papa, but Mons. Le Brun was so busy talking, so I came to
bring Paulette.”
“Our good friend Paulette, our good friend.” Mons Du. Bois took both
her brown, work-hardened hands and held them for a moment. “How can I
thank you, Paulette, for all you have done for this dear daughter?”
“I, monsieur? It is nothing I have done, nothing to speak of. I would
be criminal to have done less, and what has she not been to me? I could
not have borne it all if it had not been for her.”
“Odette, too. You must see Odette, papa, my friend of whom I have
written you,” Lucie chimed in.
So Odette was brought out to be made known to her Lucie’s father, and
to greet him somewhat shyly, but with a little dignity of her own. Then
Lucie bore her father off for a long, long talk.
For some moments they sat looking in each other’s faces for the changes
the year had wrought. The happy, childlike look had gone from Lucie’s
eyes. There was a more wistful expression around her mouth, and her
face in repose looked very sad. She was not the merry child of the
last year’s spring. In her father’s eyes was that far-seeing, rapt
expression she had once noticed in Victor’s. It was as if he had seen
visions, unearthly things. He looked older, sterner. There were hard,
set lines around his mouth.
The change in him gave Lucie a strange, contracted feeling about her
throat. She wound her arms around his neck and clung to him very
closely while he held her tight. “It seemed as if I should never, never
see you again,” she murmured. “It has been a whole year, a whole year,
papa, since those happy days in our own home. You have heard nothing
more?”
“Nothing.”
“But you think she is alive, that we shall see her again?”
“I could not endure it if I believed otherwise.”
“They do send them back sometimes, don’t they? those who have been
taken into Germany.”
“Sometimes, yes, when they are no longer of use.” He spoke in a bitter
tone. Lucie sighed and hid her face again on her father’s breast to
hide the gathering tears.
“I tried to be brave, papa,” she said brokenly. “I still try, but
sometimes it is very hard.”
“Do I not know that, dear daughter?”
“But soldiers are always brave.”
“They try to be; they always are outwardly, but there are times when
the spirit faints.”
“I am glad you tell me that, for there are days when my spirit goes
down, down into the very depths, yet I am much better off than so many
many others, than Odette, for instance. She has lost both her parents.
You think there is no doubt she is in Germany?” She went back to the
subject of her mother, of whom she rarely spoke to any one.
“It is possible that she is in some one of the captured towns.”
“Would that be better?”
“It might be; it might not. It all depends upon the officers in charge.
I think it is more probable that she is in Germany, for we believe that
her message came through some escaped prisoner who did not come my way
and so posted the message.”
“It was a great comfort.”
“The greatest in the world.”
Then they fell to talking of other things, of the dear grandfather, of
Victor, of Pom Pom, till Michel came by where they were sitting, on
his way from the doctor’s. He waved his cap when he saw Lucie. “He is
better, mademoiselle, and unless he takes a bad turn the doctor thinks
there is a good chance for him.”
“Thank you, Michel, that is good news you bring to-day,” Lucie answered
cheerily. “Such a good doctor, so kind, so devoted. His only son has
gone to the service and he has taken up the practice again. He had
retired, you see, for he is quite an old man. The people adore him, for
he is just as attentive to the poorest as to the richest. He came all
the way out here to see Pom Pom, and is watching and nursing him as if
he were his dearest friend.”
“There is much goodness in the world,” her father returned
thoughtfully, “but sometimes it takes great afflictions to make one
realize it. You are contented here, little one?”
“As much as I could be while things are as they are, and much more so
than in Paris. Of course I long for the day to come when we can go back
to our own home. Paulette is always talking about it. Will the war last
so very much longer? Can we go as soon as the Germans have left our
town?”
“I am afraid those are questions it would take a wiser one than I to
answer.”
“But you would like me to stay here till it is safe to go back, and you
will come when you can to see me? It is farther away than Paris, you
know.”
“It does not appear that there is a better place for you, here among
friends, and I feel satisfied while you have Paulette, she is such a
good devoted soul.”
“She is all that, and Odette, too. Then I am satisfied if you are.”
Many other long talks did the two have during Mons. Du Bois’s period
of leave, and more than one thing was settled during his stay,
among them the affair between Gaspard and Annette. The two soldiers
went off together and life settled back into its former routine at
_Coin-du-Pres_.