JOY
Through the combined efforts of Miss Lowndes, Philip Randolph and some
others, the little house of four rooms was set up near the shed, the
latter serving as a place in which to house the fowls, the rabbits and
a goat which was the pride of Paulette’s heart. Of course all this was
not accomplished at once, but her uncle had the satisfaction of seeing
Lucie installed in her new home before he left the town. She parted
from him with sorrow. He was something her very own, her mother’s
brother, and the tie of blood was strong. She had learned, before this,
of her father’s capture in a night raid when he had sacrificed himself
to save his men. Jean brought them an account of it, and the honest
fellow wept as he told of it. His “capitaine” was beloved above all men.
In August the French retook ground at Verdun which they had lost the
year before. In October they won more ground north of the Aisne.
In November came the first encounter between the Americans and the
enemy. The latter part of the same month began the battle of Cambrai,
when the big crawling tanks did their good work and the British won
successes. And so the year went out with victory still hanging in the
balance.
In all these months Lucie had seen nothing of Victor. She heard from
_Coin-du-Pres_ that Annette had returned, and the first of the year
brought the wonderful news that there was a baby Gaspard. The little
mother could speak of nothing else in her letters, and it was evident
that the whole household was given over to adoring this new member of
it.
The winter went quietly enough. There was much work in the canteen. In
answer to hurry calls Lucie, Paulette and Odette would drop everything
at home, in order to lend a hand in ladling soup and pouring coffee,
returning home late at night, quite exhausted but with a warm glow of
satisfaction at having been doing a service to France.
Then in March came the great drive. Nearer and nearer advanced the
Germans. At one time it seemed as if they must sweep everything before
them. The sound of threatening guns grew more and more menacing. The
fires of burning villages lighted up the horizon. Lucie and Odette
clung together wishing that they had never left _Coin-du-Pres_.
Paulette with an expression of savage fury muttered as she went about
her work. Then one morning came a messenger from Miss Lowndes. “We are
preparing to evacuate the town. Be ready when you are called upon to
leave.”
“Again? Not again?” cried Lucie aghast.
“That’s what it looks like,” said Marcus, the driver of the canteen
motor car. “Fritzie is getting back at us. We’ve got to be ready.”
“How soon shall we have to go?”
“Can’t tell. I’ll let you know in time. All you’ve got to do is to be
ready.”
He went off to continue his work of warning. Some of the people at
once began to depart, refugees again; others sought safety in cellars,
dreading a nearer roar of guns and the whistle of shells. Twenty-four
hours of dread. No one slept that night. Who knew when a shell might
come crashing down upon the town? Big Bertha was doing deadly work in
Paris, what might not one expect here?
Then came the morning when out of their houses and cellars flocked
the people. A shout went up. The three in the little new house ran to
the gate. A boy was running up the street waving his arms and crying:
“They’re driven back! They’re driven back! _Vive la France!_”
“We’re safe! We’re safe!” cried Lucie.
“For the moment,” returned Paulette. “I for one do not unpack.”
But though, as time went on, there was a swaying back and forth of the
line, no farther in that direction did the foe advance. Not a shot
fell in the town, and, beyond, the country was peaceful and smiling.
For days those in the little town waited tremblingly the German
advance. Must they be driven out a second time? It seemed almost as if
it must be so for many towns and villages which had been reëstablished
were now being evacuated and the dwellers therein taken farther back to
safety, with all their supplies and even their livestock, much of this
the excellent work of the American Committee for Devastated France. As
time went on and danger threatened more and more, it almost seemed that
the big guns would be directed the next moment upon the town, and that
the bombs would finish the work of destruction begun four years before.
But beyond a certain point the enemy did not penetrate. The fields were
unscathed, the buildings unscarred. The great Juggernaut of war had not
crushed them.
There was much hard fighting, so many lives lost that Lucie at last
came to be thankful that her father was out of it, even though his
might not be an enviable position. At least she might hope that he
would survive and that she could see him again. That veil of silence
still covered her mother, while the Allies were continuing their
triumphant advance, and town after town was liberated.
Then one day the veil was lifted. It was in October. Lucie, with her
pigeons flocking around her, heard a sudden call from Odette. “Come,
come quickly, there are persons coming up the street and I think they
are looking for this house.”
Lucie went to the gate to see two men and a woman approaching. One
was a soldier with an empty sleeve and wearing the French uniform. A
second soldier was plainly an American, and as he came nearer Lucie
distinguished her uncle Philip. The woman she did not recognize at the
first instant, but presently with a wild cry of joy the girl darted out
the gate to throw herself, sobbing hysterically, into the arms of her
very own mother.
“Oh, mother, mother,” she murmured, clinging to her as if she could
never let her go, “I knew you would come. I knew it. I never gave
up hope, in all these years I never did. Let me look at you, my own
mother, to be very sure.”
She looked very worn and much, very much, older, this dear mother,
but the general appearance was the same. The two stood gazing at each
other, lost to all else. Madame Du Bois’s abundant hair had grown
thinner and showed streaks of gray. She was very thin, and the happy,
buoyant expression she had always worn had given place to an expression
of patient sadness. “You have changed, my little Lucie,” she said. “My
little girl is gone and here is one almost a young lady in her place.”
“No, no, _maman_, I am still your little girl. I may have grown but my
heart is still as you left it.” They clung and kissed again as if this
were the sum of all desire.
After a while the young Frenchman spoke up. “Have you yet no word of
greeting for an old friend, Lucie?” he asked.
She disengaged herself from her mother’s embrace to turn to him.
“Victor!” she exclaimed, and held out both her hands. “This is
wonderful, wonderful beyond words! And my uncle too. It is like a
miracle, a vision, that you all three should appear at the same moment.”
Here Paulette came running out, gesticulating, crying, uttering
disconnected words. “Madame, it is my dear madame! It is not then a
shadow that I see, a spirit. Madame, if I but may embrace you, this
Paulette who has never ceased to mourn for you.”
“My good Paulette, dear Paulette, that I should find you here so
faithfully guarding my Lucie,” returned Madame Du Bois, kissing the
good woman on each cheek. “I have heard, oh, yes, they have told me of
your faithfulness, your care of my little child, for which I can never
thank you enough.”
“And Odette, you must know her,” declared Lucie. “Oh, there is so much
to tell. It will take years, years, to say it all.”
Odette, who had been keeping in the background, was brought forward,
then Madame Du Bois caught sight of Pom Pom who was sniffing around
trying to make up his mind if he should dash out the gate and bark
or keep a respectful distance. “Pom Pom, you still have Pom Pom,”
exclaimed Madame Du Bois.
At this instant Victor whistled, and unheeding gates and bars Pom Pom
made a frantic effort, leaped over the gate and flew to his master,
fawning at his feet and whimpering with joy. “He at least is glad to
see me,” said Victor.
“Oh, but Victor,” Lucie turned to him, “I am glad to see you, and I am
so grieved to see that you have been wounded. Tell me when and how.”
“That will keep,” returned he. “All I want is the assurance that you
are glad to see me, even though I am not all here.”
They all went in to learn of the many, many things which had befallen
each one since their parting.
“And where have you been, darling mother, all this time?” was Lucie’s
first question.
“In a town which was held by the Germans till very recently. I was
caught there on my way from home, and there I have been ever since.”
“Were you badly treated?”
“Sometimes better, sometimes worse; it depended on who was in command.
I was obliged to work, at times, beyond my strength. I was fortunate
not to be deported, as so many others were, but I think my claims to
being American born spared me that.”
“Good!” exclaimed her brother.
“I sent you a message,” Madame Du Bois went on, “but I never knew
whether it reached you. An old man in the town determined to try to
escape. I knew of his intention, and sent the message which I knew
would not incriminate him in any way if he were captured.”
“It did reach us,” Lucie told her, “and has been the one gleam of
comfort that my father and I have had. You know, perhaps, mamma, about
my father, and that dear grandfather has left us.”
“I have heard. Victor has told me some things, many things indeed, and
Philip has told me others.” She sighed.
“Cheer up, Louise,” said her brother. “We’re driving those Boches clear
out of sight, and before you know it there won’t be a spiked helmet
this side the Rhine. We’re driving them fast.”
“Dear Philip,” said Madame Du Bois, looking at him affectionately. “I
can’t believe that my baby brother has grown into this big, six-foot
soldier. We must talk of things at home, for you know we have hardly
touched upon that subject yet.”
“Why, when did you meet him?” inquired Lucie.
“Just before we started to come here from the canteen.”
“But this is even more strange. How was it?”
“Let Monsieur Victor tell you,” spoke up Philip, “while I talk to
sister. I haven’t much time to spare this trip.”
Lucie turned to Victor. “Tell me,” she said.
“I met madame, your mother, in a town back there,” Victor commenced to
say.
“But you were not fighting, of course. You were not with your company.”
“No, I had been in a hospital for this,” he touched his empty sleeve,
“and was discharged, but I could not stay away, and when I learned
that the towns were being evacuated, and that those who had been under
German control were being liberated, I asked the boys to do something
I could not do, so they did this and when your mother came through the
place where I was I joined her and we came on together. I wanted to
come, you know, to see--Pom Pom.”
“Look here,” Philip broke in, “it doesn’t seem to me that he’s telling
that right. There’s too little of it. I can’t understand it all, you
know, but I can make out quite a lot. Better let me tell it. The boy
was just out of the hospital. He was to go home. Does he go? Not a
bit of it. He works it so he gets permission to help at one of the
Red Cross stations. He told them that he wished above all things to
discover the whereabouts of one Madame Louise Du Bois. She was supposed
to be interned in one of the towns held by the Germans, unless she had
been deported to Germany. He talked so persistently and interested so
many persons that the word was passed along and your precious mother
was finally located and sent on to this Red Cross station where Mons.
Victor Guerin met her and escorted her to her own home.”
“What is this he says?” asked Victor, hearing his name.
“Never mind,” said Lucie. “It is nothing to your discredit, Victor. In
fact I find you a hero, you dear, good Victor, for you discovered my
mother.”
“I did nothing at all. I simply made inquiries and asked others to do
the same.”
“But it was through you that she was able to come home. You found her.”
“I did not find her. They of the _Croix Rouge_ did that and sent us
here. At the canteen in this town we find your uncle.”
“Aha!” exclaimed Lucie. “And how long, my sly uncle, had you been
there?”
Philip colored up and laughed a trifle confusedly. “Really it was only
a few minutes. I was coming here right away. As I was saying, Louise,
mother would not say a word to discourage my coming.”
Lucie gently touched Victor’s empty sleeve. “It is very sad,” she said
softly. “I wish I could tell you how I feel for you.”
“It is not so bad,” returned Victor cheerfully, though his eyes had a
pathetic expression. “I have had the supreme joy of doing this much for
France! I have given what I could of myself and have come out better
than many of my comrades who have lost their sight or who must be
entirely helpless the rest of their lives. I shall do very well, for it
is my left arm, and I can have a most ingeniously contrived substitute.”
“I suppose he has told you of his _Croix de Guerre_.” Philip spoke
again.
“You have the cross, Victor. Then you are a hero,” Lucie said.
“I deserved it no more than many another who did not receive it, yet I
was very proud when they gave it to me at the hospital.”
“So am I proud, and so will your grandmother be. I suppose you will
soon be going to _Coin-du-Pres_.”
“Yes, although just now it is rather a _triste_ place. I think they
would rather I did not come at once.”
“But why _triste_ at this special time?”
“You have heard that my cousin Gaspard is no more? that he was killed
on the Italian front?”
“Oh, no, Victor, I had not heard. Poor little Annette a widow! How very
sad. What a blessed thing that she has her baby.”
“That is the great comfort.”
“And shall you go back to take Gaspard’s place?”
“I do not think so. I shall go for a time, of course. The little son is
the heir, you realize that.”
“Yes, of course. Then what are your plans?”
“I have none as yet. I can have none.” He spoke quite mournfully,
dejectedly, and Lucie felt a great wave of compassion sweep over her.
Victor, always so joyous and gay, to be like this, like one who had
looked into the very depths of misery and horror and who had not crept
back yet to a place where he could behold brighter visions!
He went away with her uncle soon after, promising to return in the
morning. She watched the pair going off down the street, one in horizon
blue, the other in khaki, then she returned to her mother and the two
talked till the October twilight deepened to dark.
Lucie wondered why, now that the sum of her greatest wish was granted,
she did not feel more tranquil as she lay that night with wide-open
eyes fixed upon a bright star which sent its beams through her little
window. She concluded that it was because of her father and Annette,
though she had been thinking less of them than of Victor and of
_Coin-du-Pres_. Why should it not be a good thing for Victor to marry
Annette, not yet of course, but after a while? She considered this
possibility for a little time, but somehow did not care to continue the
subject. Then she decided that a better plan would be to have her Uncle
Philip marry Annette. It would keep him in France, and give Annette
a near relationship. But suddenly she remembered her uncle’s look of
confusion when she rallied him upon his tarrying at the canteen, and
she came to the conclusion that this pretty plan was not to be depended
upon. Was he spending the evening with Miss Lowndes, and where was
Victor? She had not had any curiosity about this matter before now, but
she at once began to wonder why Victor had not returned to spend the
evening with his old friends. What was he doing? There were other girls
in the town whom he had met in days gone by. Perhaps he was renewing
old acquaintances. Victor--her mother--her father--Victor. It was the
thought of Victor, after all, which found her dropping off at last to
sleep.
She awoke in the morning with a new and delightful sense of something
unusually pleasant. Her mother! She sat up in bed and looked across to
the other side of the room where, upon a cot, her mother was sleeping
peacefully. For some moments Lucie sat gazing at her, a flood tide of
joy surging through her. It was no dream. She had believed. Odette had
believed that this day would come and their faith was justified.
Presently her mother opened her eyes and smiled. Lucie sprang out of
bed and went over to cuddle down in her embrace. To be sure the cot was
narrow but neither minded that.
“We shall scarcely have room enough in this little house when papa
comes,” said Lucie. “To be sure this is much better than the shed where
we lived at first.”
“You are very confident that your father will come, dear child.”
“Of course, just as I was confident that you would come, and here you
are. It was Uncle Philip, you know, who was instrumental in getting us
this.”
“Dear Phil; he always was the most generous boy.”
“Weren’t you surprised to see him?”
“Surprised and overjoyed.”
“How did you happen to recognize him? You hadn’t seen him since he was
a little boy.”
“I didn’t recognize him at first. Victor thought it would be well to
stop at the canteen to inquire if you were still here. Philip was there
talking to the young lady,--Miss Lowndes is her name?”
“Of course he would be,” Lucie interpolated the remark. “He talks a
great deal to Miss Lowndes, I notice.”
“Does he? Well, he might spend his time in a worse way. At all events
when Victor made his inquiries Philip turned around and looked very
sharply at me. Then he came rushing over. ‘Louise, Louise,’ he cried,
‘is it really my sister Louise?’ I am sure I don’t know how he could
tell, changed as I must be, but he did, so we hugged and kissed and
cried, all of us. Miss Lowndes included, and then we came on.”
“How did you get to S----?”
“We came in a motor car belonging to the Red Cross.”
“The next joy will be the arrival of papa; then we shall all be at home
together, all but dear grandfather. You learned about him and about
poor little Annette, didn’t you?”
“I heard. It is very sad about Annette; she is so very young.”
“But I didn’t tell you about Mousse. He was prowling last night so you
didn’t see him, but he has come back. Wasn’t it remarkable that he
should have stayed all that time in the town? That first night, oh,
mamma. I felt as if I should die. It was all so desolate, so forlorn.
I found a piece of the blue dress you used to wear; it was down among
the débris. It was only a bit of rag, and had been rained upon and
shined upon till it was faded and queer, but it seemed like a part of
you, and it almost broke my heart. Mother, mother, is it really you? Do
you mind if I pinch you to see if you are flesh and blood?”
Her mother hugged her so closely as to prove herself no dream,
whispering fond words all the while.
“And there is Pom Pom,” Lucie went on after a while. “I have a great
deal to tell you about him. Oh, dear, I have just thought, I suppose I
shall have to give him back to Victor.”
“Don’t you think Victor deserves that you should?”
“Oh, dear, yes. Mamma, if I begin to tell you everything about Victor,
all the wonderful things he has done and what a wonderful friend he has
been, we shall never get up for it will take till to-morrow morning.
We shall have to select one subject each day. One day it will have to
be Victor, another Pom Pom, another Paulette, another Odette, another
_Coin-du-Pres_ and Annette, and so on. I’m up!”
She sprang out of bed but continued to chatter away while she was
dressing, then she ran down to see if the hens had laid any fresh eggs
for her mother’s breakfast.
But it was not her father who next appeared on the scene; it was Jean.
Though before this great things had taken place. The Allied armies’
victorious advance had brought them to the borders of peace, though it
was not yet, and every one was excitedly expectant. October gave place
to November, then, in a few days came the news of Austria’s desire to
discuss an armistice. The end was near.
It was not long after this that Jean came. Lucie heard him talking to
his mother in the garden, one morning very early. They were standing
near the spot where the valuables were buried on that day of their
flight. Paulette had cleared away the pile of dead branches. Lucie
watched Jean strike his spade into the damp earth, and dig on steadily
till he had come to one of the boxes. Lucie could stand it no longer,
but slipped into her dress, threw something warm over her and ran down
to view the unearthing. She called to Odette on the way and the two
came out together.
The boxes were intact. Jean carried them into the house and opened
them. Everything was there, although the papers were moldy and the
silver tarnished. While Paulette was fussing over the boxes Odette went
out to feed the chickens. Jean followed, saying he would fill up the
hole made by the boxes.
A little while later Lucie looked out. The spade was still sticking
up in the earth as Jean had left it. “I wonder what Jean is doing,”
remarked Lucie.
Paulette chuckled. “He is occupying himself very agreeably, I fancy.”
Presently Odette came back, her big eyes soft with emotion. She went
quickly to Paulette and held out her hands appealingly.
“I know all about it, little daughter,” said Paulette, kissing her on
each cheek, “and it is as I wish. _Le bon Dieu_ has answered my prayer.”
Odette looked shyly down at a ring on her hand. It was made of steel
and set with a bit of blue glass. She held it out for Lucie to see.
“Jean made it for me from a piece of a Boche’s helmet and the blue is
from the cathedral at Rheims.” She softly kissed the ring, at the same
time looking at Lucie to see if she understood.
Lucie turned to Paulette who stood smiling exultantly. “They are
fianced,” she said, “and now I shall again have a daughter.”