UPS AND DOWNS
The days lengthened to weeks, the weeks to months, but still the war
continued, while life went on uninterruptedly at _Coin-du-Pres_. During
the time that Victor was slowly creeping back to life and strength at
a distant hospital, Pom Pom in the hands of his friends won out in his
race for health. Long before Victor was able to be on his feet the
little dog was running about quite as if he had never heard of shrapnel
or big guns. To be sure he was a trifle stiff and favored one hind leg
when he ran, but he had full use of three others and was as good as
ever, Lucie declared. If ever a dog was petted and pampered it was he,
though it was always Lucie whom he followed, Lucie whom he wished to
guard.
The good doctor dropped in frequently for a friendly call, a chat with
the girls about Pom Pom, a talk with Mons. Le Brun about the war. Lucie
often listened to the discussions, learning of the sinking of the
_Lusitania_, of the second battle of Ypres, of how the French in the
Champagne failed to pierce the German lines, of Italy as a possible
ally, of the fighting in Russia, in Turkey. The reports of the ups
and downs made the excitement of the days and were discussed by every
one from Michel up. The year 1915 went out with no great encouragement
to the hopes of the Allies; 1916 came in with little promise of sudden
success, but it found the same grim determination in the heart of every
soldier fighting for the Allied cause.
From time to time Lucie saw her father, who could tell them of the
battle of Verdun, assuring them that though the Germans had taken Fort
Douaumont it was through heavy losses, and not large results. This was
in February. In July began the battle of the Somme. It was while it was
in progress that ill news came to Paulette. Jean Ribot was reported
missing.
It was only in the first few moments that Paulette collapsed. Old Jules
brought the news. There had never been very good feeling between him
and Paulette; the latter’s sarcasms were too cutting, but there was
only neighborly sympathy on Jules’ face when he found Paulette out in
the field with Odette and the other workers. The good woman looked
dazed for a moment, then she sank down upon a heap of newly cut hay and
covered her face with her hands. The others stood around in respectful
silence, though shaking their heads at one another and whispering
little prayers.
It was Odette who broke the silence. She stood, slender and firm, with
uplifted head. “If it be true, he has given his best for France,” she
said, “but I do not believe it is true.”
Paulette rose to her feet, wiped her eyes and grasped Odette by the
wrist. “Why, why, do you say that?” she asked in a tense voice.
“That one is missing does not mean that one is dead,” replied Odette.
“He may be a prisoner.”
“Better he were dead,” mourned Paulette, covering her head with her
apron.
“And,” Odette went on, “there is a possibility that he is neither. He
may have lost himself from his companions, and be wandering in the
woods trying to find his way back. For me I shall not believe anything
very bad has happened till we know the truth.” And she began again
raking the hay.
Paulette stood still, pondering on Odette’s words. “That is well
said,” she spoke at last. “There is enough disaster of which one has
the proof, why should one be desolated until that proof comes?” Then
she too turned back to her work and all the rest followed her example.
In the week that followed Paulette was perfectly calm and confident.
If there were moments when her heart misgave her, no one knew it but
Odette, to whom she would turn a troubled face to receive in response a
reassuring smile which, some way or another, was all that was required
to restore Paulette’s equanimity.
Even Lucie had come to put confidence in Odette’s “something tells me.”
Had she not maintained that if Pom Pom recovered it would be a sign
that Victor, likewise, would do so? There was something almost uncanny
in Odette’s attitudes of mind. Probably it was nothing more than she
cultivated a cheerful optimism, and, having suffered so much, made a
practice of pushing away all unnecessary and gloomy forebodings simply
because she had come to a place where she could endure no more. She had
always assured Lucie that she was positive her mother would return, and
upon this Lucie pinned her faith, discouraged and disheartened as she
was when months passed without any word.
It was about two weeks after Jules brought the report that Jean was
missing that Odette’s proof came in a very material and satisfactory
form, for who should walk in one evening but Jean himself. Paulette who
had been so brave under ill news was now completely overcome. She threw
herself into Jean’s arms and wept on his shoulder as if her tears would
never cease.
Jean held her awkwardly and looked over at Odette standing with a vivid
light in her eyes and a mysterious smile upon her lips. “But, _mamon_,”
protested Jean, “what is this? Why this hysterical manner? Has anything
happened?”
“Anything? _Ciel!_ he calls it anything, nothing to have been reported
missing. He thinks me an insensate who did not mourn over him as one
lost, dead, prisoner.”
“But I was never any of those things,” declared Jean. “I was in the
fight, yes, but luckily I have not even a scratch. I was gassed a
little, yes, and I have this _permission_ to make up for it.”
But even this assurance did not stop the flow of Paulette’s tears, and
she still clung to him while he patted her encouragingly, his eyes on
Odette.
“It has been a long time that she has kept back her tears,” explained
Odette. “When she believed the worst she was brave, oh very full of
courage. Now, you see, it is the relief which brings the tears.”
Paulette wiped her eyes and allowed herself to be led to a chair. “It
was all because of that child,” she said. “I accepted the report and
believed I had lost you. Did she? Not at all. ‘It is not true,’ she
said. ‘I shall not believe it till we have the proof.’ It is she who
has kept me in heart, for not once would she believe it.”
“Why did you of all others refuse to believe it?” asked Jean, looking
at Odette.
“I do not know,” the girl returned. “Why should one believe an unhappy
thing till one is obliged to?”
Jean nodded thoughtfully. “It is good philosophy,” he returned. “Why I
was reported missing I do not know, but yes, I think I do, for there
is a Jean Ribaud who was taken prisoner. The names sound the same, you
see.”
“I am sorry for that other poor Jean,” said Odette.
“As you would have been sorry for me? Probably he had no Nenette and
Rintintin to protect him.”
A flashing smile lighted up Odette’s face as she picked up a bucket to
go for water.
Jean looked at his mother who had now quite recovered her calm, and who
rose, upon hospitality intent, and went into the little kitchen. Then
Jean’s eyes turned toward Odette’s vanishing form. It was Odette whom
he followed. The smile which dawned upon Paulette’s face ended in a
little chuckle.
Three days later Jean was back with his _copains_. The evening he took
his departure Paulette and Odette knelt side by side for a long time in
the dusk of the little church.
The next news was that Italy, who had already broken with
Austria-Hungary, had declared war on Germany. The battle of the Somme
continued. Roumania, siding with the Allies, entered the war only to be
utterly crushed. The end of the war appeared further off than ever.
The old joyous days seemed over for both Lucie and Annette. Tragedy
was too near them. What was the outcome for France? Madame Guerin’s
face grew grimmer and sharper. Madame Le Brun became more feeble. The
days of fatness were over. So many things were scarce. Poor little
Madame Le Brun fretted at the short rations, especially she missed
sugar. “Of course,” she said, she was willing to make sacrifices for
the soldiers, for her country, but why sugar?
“You are so childish, Marcelline,” said her sister. “Look at Lucie and
Annette; they never make a complaint, and surely girls like sugar as
well as you do.”
“They can eat anything, which I cannot do,” returned Madame Le Brun
plaintively.
“I am sure, grandma, I am perfectly willing to give up anything but
bare necessities, if it will do Gaspard any good,” said Annette.
“Well, but I have no Gaspard,” returned her grandmother with some
asperity. “If I were young and romantic I might feel differently.”
“Poor grandmother,” said Annette to Lucie when they were alone, “I wish
I had a ration of sugar to give her, for I do not mind in the least
going without.”
“Nor I. If it does my father any good, I am willing to live on the very
plainest fare.”
“I think we all feel that way, all except poor grandmother. She has
been so accustomed to being considered and catered to that it is
harder for her than most.”
“I think perhaps,” said Lucie after a pause, “that one should be
thankful for opportunities of making sacrifices, for it certainly makes
us stronger and more unselfish. I used to hate sorrow and trouble but
now I can see the use of it, even though I do not enjoy it.”
Annette smiled. “I don’t believe there is even a saint who would expect
us to enjoy trouble,” she answered. “We can accept it as a part of
discipline, as Sister Marie Ottillia used to say, but we needn’t try to
delight in it.” The two girls went on with their sewing very quietly
for a while. “I haven’t heard from Gaspard for a long time,” Annette at
last spoke her thought. “I don’t know whether that means good or bad
news.”
“Odette would say good news,” responded Lucie. “She is an odd little
one, that Odette. If she had lived in the days of Joan of Arc I believe
that she too might have heard voices.”
“How Paulette dotes on her, and no wonder. Have you ever thought--?”
“Oh, yes, I have thought, but I do not say anything. One must wait till
the war is over.”
“Must one? I shall not if Gaspard decides otherwise.”
“Perhaps that is why you have had no letters. He may be on his way
home.”
“I have thought of that.”
“And it is why you are sewing so contentedly and are putting in so many
fine stitches?”
“It is one reason.”
Lucie drew a little sigh. “It will be strange to think of you married,
Annette. Here we are seeing each other daily just as we did before the
war, and the time will come when you will be in one place and I in
another.”
“Perhaps not. We might both continue to be here.”
“Oh, no, for as soon as we dare we must go back to have the home all
ready for my mother.”
Annette was silent. She felt very uncertain that Lucie’s hopes were
to be fulfilled. Then she briskly changed the subject. “Would you
embroider this all the way around, or would you only put a little in
front?”
Lucie gave the matter due consideration, but had not decided when there
came a call from below stairs. “Annette, Annette. Come at once.”
Down went Annette’s work as she hastily ran to answer the call.
Although Lucie was full of curiosity she decided that she would not
follow. If she had been wanted the call would have included herself. So
she sat quite still, presently looking around to see if Pom Pom were
near. He could be relied upon not to be very far off, and this time was
discovered under Lucie’s chair.
Annette was gone a long time, so that Lucie began to wonder what was
keeping her and was about to go in search of her when her friend
appeared, looking very flushed and excited. “It is so strange, so very
strange,” she began, “just as we were talking of it.”
“Not trouble!” exclaimed Lucie, “not more trouble.”
“No, I hope not.” A little smile flitted across Annette’s face. “It is
about Gaspard. He is coming, and--”
“And--.” Lucie looked her understanding.
“Yes, that is it. He wishes that we be married at once so that I can go
back with him to Paris and spend the rest of his leave with him there.
He has affairs to look after in Paris, you see, and cannot stay here
for long.”
“And what is this at once?” asked Lucie, suddenly feeling very much
grown up.
“Day after to-morrow,” replied Annette soberly. “He has six weeks
leave, which gives him about a month in Paris.”
“And then you will come back here?”
“Oh, yes, to wait till the war is over and he returns to take up his
life here at _Coin-du-Pres_, which will be my home forevermore, I
suppose.”
“You like the idea? You would rather that than to go back to your old
home next door to us?”
Annette shook her head. “That old home is no more. From what we have
heard there is little to go back to. One must accept such things and
be content.”
Lucie sighed. “I shall never be content till I get back there, even if
there be not a tree nor a shrub left. It has been very wonderful that
I could be with you here, and particularly now, but I could not stay
during that forevermore, for I shall some day have my own home with my
own parents, you see. It would be very queer, however, if I were not on
hand to see you married. You are eighteen, and in another year I shall
be that age, but it seems to me that it will be a long, a very long
time before I shall be thinking of marriage. Just consider, Annette, it
is probable that I have never seen the man I shall marry. I wonder what
he is like. Perhaps I shall never marry at all. It is very likely to be
that way, and I shall be perfectly satisfied, for with my father and
mother whom else should I wish? unless it be my friend, Madame Gaspard
Guerin. How funny that sounds.”
Annette, who had picked up her work again and was setting swift
stitches, smiled as she repeated the name softly.
“It may not sound so strange to you,” Lucie chattered on, “for the name
has always been familiar, but consider, Annette, what it may mean to me
to have a perfectly strange name suddenly thrust upon me.”
Annette let her eyes rest for a moment upon her friend. “It may not be
a strange name,” she remarked.
“Oh, yes, it will have to be, for I have not yet met the man that I
mean to fall in love with.”
Annette tipped her head to one side and regarded Lucie reflectively.
“You say funny things,” she asserted, “but all the same I repeat that
it may not be an unfamiliar name; one never knows. Do you like the name
of Guerin?” she asked after a pause.
“It is a very good name. I do not dislike it.”
“Which do you like better, the name of Gaspard or Victor?”
“Why, I don’t know. I never thought. I believe Victor--no, Gaspard.
It is less common, although Victor sounds well, as if the owner might
really be a victor.”
“Which I hope our Victor will be. You are going to be my bridesmaid of
course, Lucie.”
“In refugee clothes?”
“Nonsense! This is a war wedding and it doesn’t matter what one wears.
If my grandmother had not treasured her own wedding frock and had not
insisted upon bringing it away rather than more sensible things, I
should be without a proper gown myself. It will have to be altered a
little, but Aunt Clothilde knows some one who will do that to-morrow.”
“And I shall have no wedding present for you,” Lucie went on sadly,
“unless,” she added with a little laugh, “I can find you a volume of
Dickens.”
Annette laughed, too. “How long ago that seems, and what children we
were.”
“Three years is a long, long time. A month is a long time and you will
be away for that long. I wonder what will happen before you get back?”
“Let us hope the war will end,” returned Annette, shaking out her
sewing as she rose to put it away.
Gaspard arrived the next day and with him a young officer who was to be
best man. His cousin had tried to get hold of Victor, but finding this
an impossibility had pressed this comrade into service. Lucie looked
speculatively at the young man, whose name was Adolph Favre, but made
up her mind before very long that he was not the hero of her dreams,
well meaning and courteous though he was, and quite inclined to pay
especial compliments to her.
Because of the short notice everything was in a great flurry, of
course. Madame Guerin was everywhere, directing, scolding, arranging.
Madame Le Brun was divided between encouraging a headache and a desire
to see all that was going on. Mons. Le Brun frowned one minute and
smiled the next. He was fond of his little granddaughter and this
marrying her to a soldier in war time involved some anxiety as to her
future. He and Lucie had long talks whenever they found a chance,
which was not often. Paulette, summoned from the fields with Odette,
was turned into the kitchen to give her very capable assistance in the
preparation of the feast. Michel was kept running errands here, there,
everywhere, while Jules with the _charrette_ was jogging into the
village nearly every hour.
At last Annette in her grandmother’s ivory satin wedding gown was
ready. Lucie in a simple white voilé attended her. The roses Annette
carried were from the garden of _Coin-du-Pres_. The little bride looked
very young and innocent. There was not a large wedding party but the
small church was filled with the villagers, scarce a young man, but
many old ones, were there, the doctor chief among them. Every one tried
to be merry at the wedding breakfast but somehow merriment did not sit
well; the times were too uncertain, so they finally lapsed into quiet
talk, Gaspard and his friends ready to tell of thrilling adventures,
which kept the others spellbound until the hour of departure was at
hand.
It was Lucie and Odette who divested Annette of her bridal robes and
got her into the simple traveling dress which she was to wear. Annette
cried a little as she said good-by, but went off quite proud of her
soldier husband, and of being called Madame.
Lucie begged to go into the kitchen to help Paulette and Odette to
clear up. “It will be less lonely there,” she argued, so Madame Guerin
gave permission, and in the drying of fine glass and china, the
counting of silver, she passed away the first hours, chattering away to
Odette about the events of the day. “She looked very sweet, didn’t she,
Odette?” she began. “But so young, like a little girl. Gaspard appeared
so much older. I hope he is not too old.”
Paulette laughed. “How old might this antiquity be?” she asked.
“He is three years older than Victor and Victor was eighteen just after
the war began. That is three years ago or nearly so, therefore Victor
is twenty-one and Gaspard twenty-four, six years older than Annette. In
another year he will be twenty-five, which is far from young.”
Paulette laughed again. “Far from young is it? _Ma foi_, mademoiselle,
what is one at forty?”
“He would be far too old for me to consider for a husband,” replied
Lucie diplomatically.
“La la, there is time enough for you to be thinking of that.”
“But when one’s oldest friend has just married one cannot but think
somewhat on the subject. I looked forward to meeting this Mons. Favre.
Perhaps he is the one, I told myself, but after I saw him I decided he
would never do.”
“It is not for little girls to be looking out for husbands,” said
Paulette severely. “It is quite out of place. You should leave it to
your parents.”
“I don’t intend to leave it to them altogether. I intend to have my say
in the matter,” returned Lucie decidedly.
Paulette threw out her hands with a hopeless gesture. “This comes of
having no proper guardian. If we hear any more of these too independent
opinions, monsieur your father must be spoken to. You should be in a
convent this minute.”
This was the most crushing speech Paulette had ever made to her and
Lucie was properly subdued. She laid down the towel she held and
marched out of the room, determining to hunt up Grandpa Le Brun, who
would only laugh at her saucy speeches.