THE END IS PEACE
The towers of the little church were gone, the bells, carried off by
the Germans, could give forth no joyous peal, but there came a day when
the small town joined the rest of the world in celebrating the news
of the armistice. “Make a joyful noise, all ye lands,” quoted the old
_curé_ as he stood on the steps of the church and smiled indulgently
upon the boys who were raising a tremendous din with any kind of thing
that would furnish a noise. An old bugle, a sheet of tin and a hammer,
cow bells and sheep bells, were in great requisition. There was a
descent upon the kitchens, every boy carrying off whatsoever he could
lay his hands upon, from a tin plate to a copper cauldron, and he did
it unreproved. People stood in little knots talking excitedly, weeping,
shouting, singing. Anything resembling a tricolor was waved, was hung
from windows, was carried in parade upon the end of a stick. The last
gun was fired at eleven A.M. At that hour from the church steps the old
_curé_ raised his hands in benediction before he began mass.
Lucie and Odette joined the marching throng to swell the volume of song
when the strains of the Marseillaise arose above the din. An old man
with an ancient cornet played the air, the boys beat wildly upon their
improvised drums. Men, women and children joined in.
Presently at the end of the procession appeared a grinning black face.
A negro soldier with a small American flag stuck in his hat, deftly
rattled a set of bones and lent his voice to the singing with a fervor
unmistakable even if his rendering of the words was peculiar:
“O, sarm city on,
Form a batty one,”
sang Gus Fitchett, then suddenly to the intense delight of the boys he
broke into a series of pigeon wings, double shuffles, and cake walks,
keeping time with his clattering bones. In a moment there was an end of
the singing and Gus was the center of a group which cheered, applauded,
urged him on till he stopped exhausted to wipe his perspiring face.
All at once he stiffened up rigidly and stood at attention as an
American officer came up, whom he saluted. Philip Randolph, trying to
repress a smile said authoritatively: “You black rascal, what are you
up to?”
Gus gave a series of salutes. “Jes’ celebratin’, suh. Wah obah, suh.”
“You’ll be over, over in the guard house if you don’t look out,” said
Philip. “Hallo, Lucie, are you in this, too?”
“Of course. Please don’t scold Gus; he is such a dear.”
“Oh, you know him, do you?”
“Indeed I do. He’ll fall at your feet if I tell him you’re my uncle
from Virginia. Wasn’t his dancing wonderful?”
“Pretty good. I used to perform that way myself when I was a boy, but
I never was quite as limber as that. To tell you the truth I haven’t
had such a reminder of home since I left. It’s lucky I know his kind or
he’d be reported. What about this--Gus is his name?”
“I don’t know. I suppose he is on leave. He heads straight for this
place the minute he gets a furlough, and all because I was good to him
that first day when he came in with a broken head. The war is over,
really?”
“Practically, though, confound it, my regiment wasn’t in the front line
when they sent over the last shot. I’m here instead of there.”
“On leave?”
“On my way from Paris, official business.”
“But you will be coming back this way again soon?”
“I hope so.”
“And when do you return home?”
“That’s something no fellow can find out. I may hang around for
months, may go any time. I must run in for a brief moment to see your
mother and then I’m off.”
After his one day of proud celebration when he enjoyed to the fullest
his position as central attraction, Gus Fitchett faded out of sight,
and was seen no more in those parts, though one day, weeks later, came
a postcard from Boulogne, a gay and giddy Christmas card bearing in
crooked and weird handwriting Lucie’s name. “Mery Crismuss and good-by
Mis Lucy. I salin fo home,” it read.
Meanwhile those who lived at S---- watched and waited for news of
returning prisoners. By the end of November a million and a half had
been released and were finding their way back to France. It was not to
be supposed that the friends of Captain Du Bois would overlook him, or
that they would fail to see, providing he were still alive, that he
reached home safely. The Y.M.C.A., the Salvation Army, the Knights of
Columbus, helped the army in their task of feeding and directing these
returned prisoners. Many of them were in a pitiable condition; others
were not in so bad a state as it was feared they would be. All were
underfed, many were ill.
It was just before Christmas. The little house of the Du Bois’s was
warm and snug, cold though it was outside. Madame Du Bois and Lucie
occupied one of the upstairs rooms; Paulette and Odette the other. The
fowls, the rabbits, the goat were safely and comfortably housed in
the shed. From the kitchen issued savory odors. Mousse, in his usual
Sybaritic way, sought out the warmest spot near the stove there. In
the next room Madame Du Bois was sewing. She had regained some of her
charming air of distinction. Her soft hair, though showing streaks of
gray, was shining and prettily arranged. Her dress, simple enough, sat
well upon her graceful figure. Lucie, too, since her mother’s return
had more the appearance of one delicately bred. Pom Pom was curled up
at her feet. There was silver on the table and a bit of green in a
tall vase gave an attempt at Christmas decoration. The room held a few
chairs, a table, a set of shelves, a divan cot covered with a homespun
quilt, found back in the country where Miss Lowndes had taken Madame Du
Bois and Lucie one day on a foraging expedition. On the same day they
had been able to get some crude mats for the floor, which added to the
room’s look of comfort.
“Mamma,” said Lucie, suddenly raising her head, “do you know that Jean
and Odette have decided to be married at Easter. Paulette has said
so and that settles it. She made up her mind long ago that those two
should marry, and had Jean all in a state of mind to agree, though I
must say that it wasn’t hard to persuade him, for he loves Odette and
she loves him, which is very fortunate. Mamma, is that the way you are
going to do?”
“What way, dear daughter?”
“Pick out some one and say to me: here’s your husband.”
Madame Du Bois smiled. “Isn’t it rather early to begin to worry about
that?”
“Why, I don’t know. Look at Annette, engaged, married, widowed by the
time she was nineteen. Of course, dearest mother, I love you too much
to marry any one against your wishes, but I do want to choose my own
husband just as you did.”
“Have you any one in mind?” Madame Du Bois was still smiling.
“I haven’t quite decided, though I think perhaps I shall marry an
American, they are so nice and polite and kind. I love to see the way
they make friends with the children. The only trouble is that he would
want to take me home to his own country. Some of those who come to the
canteen are very good looking. Uncle Phil has promised to bring some
of those he knows over here to see us, though he hasn’t done it yet. I
think maybe he wants to keep them from seeing Miss Lowndes. Don’t you
think he likes Miss Lowndes very much?”
“Very much, and she is a lovely girl. Well, dear daughter, so long as
you are still casting about in your mind for a proper person to fall in
love with I do not think we may have any uneasiness about the state of
your heart.”
“Of course I have an ideal,” Lucie continued the subject. “Sometimes
I am very certain he is an American; again I tell myself I could only
marry a Frenchman, a soldier of France, of course. I do so adore my
France, and I might not like the United States. It is very hard to
decide,” she sighed.
After a silence she spoke again. “Annette was not really in love with
Gaspard, though she loved him very much after they were married. I’d
love to see her and the baby.”
“Now that the war is over you may have the chance of going again to
_Coin-du-Pres_. I should like to go there myself to thank them in
person for their goodness to you, and to see our good neighbors again.
I suppose for the present Victor will stay there, and in course of time
he may marry Annette. It would be an excellent arrangement.”
“Oh, mamma, do you think so?”
“Certainly; an admirable arrangement.”
“They are cousins.”
“Not very nearly related, not too near.”
Lucie dropped the work she was engaged upon and sat for a long time
gazing into the fire.
Her meditations were broken in upon by the sound of voices outside. She
sprang to her feet. “Mother,” she breathed, “if it should be!”
Madame Du Bois arose and stood shaking nervously. “I am still easily
unstrung,” she murmured weakly. “Go and see who it is, Lucie.”
Pom Pom pricked up his ears and growled, then whined to be let out.
Lucie went to the door. Two men stood there; one was Jean, easily
enough recognized, the second she could not at once identify. But
presently she gave a wild cry. “It is! It is! Mother, come quickly; it
is papa!”
And so it was, very thin and haggard, rather weakly trembling, but
unharmed. For a while there were more tears than smiles, but they were
tears of joy.
Upon the scarred and tortured land descended the spirit of Christmas.
In spite of countless crosses, stretching mile after mile across
the country, in spite of deserted firesides, of blackened ruins, of
sickening memories and mourning hearts, there was peace. The children
of France gave reverent thanks and rejoiced that their beloved land,
torn, despoiled, devastated though it was, still remained their own
land.
“In her children lie her hopes,” said the old _curé_, stopping to speak
to Captain Du Bois. “The flower of our country has been cut down, but
the roots are there and from them will spring up a new race of men.
There is much to do, my dear Marcel, but it will be accomplished in
time. It may be years before we see the land restored; it may not be
in my day, but in yours. Oh, yes, I have faith to believe it will not
be many years before France will be as radiantly lovely as ever. We
have suffered, but we do not despair, and we shall learn how blessed is
work. You build up your chimneys again. Marcel?” He looked toward the
factories.
“I hope to,” replied Captain Du Bois. “It must be a question of time,
of course. I am not so hale as I was, and wish I might unite my
experience to the enthusiasm of a younger man.”
The _curé_ nodded. “That may work out. One cannot tell. The ways of
Heaven are manifold. The hour and the man frequently arrive together.
It will be a happy day for me when I see our town restored to some of
its former usefulness and beauty. It will come, Marcel; it will come.
Much has been taken, but much is left.” He raised his hand in blessing
and the two parted. Captain Du Bois watched the good man in his shabby
_soutane_ as he went on up the street, and felt warmed by the fine fire
of faith and hope which illumined the face of this good friend who had
lost so much and who yet maintained his simple belief in the higher
orderings of Heaven.
“Much has been taken, but much is left,” pondered Marcel Du Bois as
he entered his little home. His wife, his daughter, these two best
blessings were left. He went in smiling and put an arm around each.
“Much has been taken, but much is left,” he quoted. “Another Christmas,
perhaps, shall see the factory chimneys smoking, shall see our old home
restored, life again something as it was before the war.”
“And what shall we do with this little house?” asked Lucie, leaning
back against his shoulder and looking up at him.
“This little house? We’ll have to let Paulette, Jean and Odette live in
it, unless you are counting upon it to use as a doll house.”
“A doll house,” cried Lucie contemptuously. “Why, papa, I am grown up.”
“Really?” He smiled. “I haven’t discovered it. We have those four
years, your mother and I, four years of your childhood to make up. We
have been cheated out of them, and we cannot consider you grown up till
we have been paid back those lost years.”
“Oh, papa!” Lucie looked quite taken aback.
“Four years,” he repeated, laughing and pinching her cheek.
A week later appeared Victor. The meeting between the older and the
younger soldier was good to see. For the time being Lucie felt herself
a person of small consequence. Victor was absorbed in her father, he
in Victor. After the first half hour Lucie slipped away. She was not
grown up; no one considered her so. Even her old playmate treated her
like the child she felt herself to be. She threw something around her
and went out into the garden, now winter-locked. She looked back to
see if Pom Pom were following, but he was all too content to be within
reach of Victor’s hand, within sound of his voice. She sighed as she
looked at the broken wall separating her own garden from that which was
now a wilderness. Those good old days! No more Annette; no more those
lightsome hours of play.
The kitchen door was open. She heard Paulette and Odette talking
inside. “He will marry Mlle. Annette, Madame Gaspard, I should say,”
she heard Paulette’s voice.
“I do not believe it,” answered Odette.
“And why not?” Paulette asked. “Of course one must give them time, but
it is plain to every one that it would be the best arrangement.”
“I do not think those two will ever marry,” Odette maintained.
“One gives you credit for much good sense, my daughter,” laughed
Paulette, “but you are too young to know everything. I say the thing
will be accomplished and I am not the only one who thinks so.”
Lucie gave a little impatient kick at a bit of stone in her path, and
waited to hear no more, but went on to visit the rabbits. She felt
very lonely. She had few girl acquaintances in the town and those she
had known were now far away, safely sheltered in some convent school.
Why was every one so bent upon talking about Annette and Victor? and
why had Victor just now greeted her in that slightly embarrassed,
slightly distant manner? Heretofore he had always been so cordial, so
unconsciously natural. What was it that made the difference? It must be
as Paulette surmised.
She entered the little shed and sat down to take a baby bunny in her
lap, stroking the small creature’s long, soft ears. “And there is Pom
Pom,” she soliloquized, “even he will not miss me so much once he is
again in Victor’s hands. Odette thinks of no one but Jean, and Annette
has her baby. I have my beloved parents, ungrateful that I am, but it
is hard to feel one’s self slipping into second place, third place, no
place in the affections of one’s friends.” She sat there for some time
nursing the little baby rabbit. She saw her father and Victor go out
the gate, Pom Pom at their heels. The two men were talking earnestly as
they moved off down the street. After a time Lucie put the rabbit back
with his brothers and sisters, then she went into the house.
Her mother looked up brightly as she came in. “Where have you been,
dear daughter?”
Lucie smiled somewhat wofully. “Out in the shed with the rabbits.”
“You couldn’t have found them very lively companions.”
“No, but they were better than none. I meant to go down to see Miss
Lowndes, but I saw papa and Victor walking off in that direction and
thought I’d better wait till the coast was clear.”
“For the possible meeting of that ideal American soldier you were
talking of the other day?”
“Maybe. Miss Lowndes is going very soon. Every one is deserting me.”
“Why, my dear.” Her mother looked up, surprising tears in her
daughter’s eyes. “Why are you so melancholy, dear little girl?”
“Miss Lowndes is going, and Uncle Philip cannot stay very long on this
side the world.”
“But from the looks of things we shall see them both again, and
together, in all probability.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t help the present parting.”
“But think what pleasure we shall have in looking forward to seeing
them again. Some day we shall be going over to my old home and there
you will find Miss Lowndes transformed into a new aunt. That should
make you very happy, as it does me.”
“Yes, I shall like that.” Lucie brightened a little, though she said
rather mournfully, “I’m afraid I shall appear very ignorant to those
relatives over there. Miss Lowndes knows such a lot about everything.”
“Well, dear, we know your education has been neglected of late, but we
shall find a good school for you. Those four years your father spoke
of, they will have to be made up, though we shall not be satisfied to
send you too far from us after this long separation.”
“But why at all? Cannot we find a teacher here?”
“We shall see; we shall see. The main thing is to make up for lost
time. There are many girls like you who will be wanting to begin their
studies where they left off four years ago, and the opportunities will
come. It is wonderful what has been done already for the children
orphaned or stranded.”
Lucie did not reply to this, but presently she said: “I suppose the
time is coming when I must give back Pom Pom, that hurts dreadfully,
and there is Odette going to marry.”
“But you are delighted at that. You wouldn’t alter that fact, I am
sure.”
“No, no. And Annette--”
“But Annette is no new grievance; that has become quite an old story,
hasn’t it?”
“Ye-es, but there Victor comes in. We have been such comrades. I have
been going over it all out there in the shed. I can’t forget that day
when he met me on the road after that night in the cow shed, and we dug
out Long Ears. He was so wonderful.”
“Long Ears was?”
“No, no, it is Victor I am talking about. Then that day of the
shoes when he was so clever about getting my footprint. That was a
heavenly day to remember. Then when he made the secret about going to
_Coin-du-Pres_; he was so happy over it. And now I must think of those
things no more, for if he marries Annette they will be absorbed in one
another and I shall no longer be first with any friend. It is very hard
to be superseded.”
Her mother drew her down upon her lap and kissed her. “I suppose it is
the end of the year which brings these melancholy thoughts; it can be
nothing else, of course. Cheer up, dear child, who knows what unknown
knight may not be riding along to meet you in the new year, that ideal
knight of yours.”
Lucie drew a long sigh, but said nothing.
“Here come your father and Victor,” her mother glanced out the window;
“let us hear what good news they have to tell.”
“Where have they been?”
“Looking over the factory. Does it seem promising?” she asked as the
two men came in.
“Very promising,” replied her husband, nodding with a satisfied air.
“There seems to be but one thing left to settle.” He glanced at Lucie,
who still sat, with downcast eyes, upon her mother’s knee.
Madame Du Bois smiled and lifted her eyebrows suggestively as she
turned to Victor. “And what about _Coin-du-Pres_?” she asked.
“That depends,” answered the young man hesitatingly, and also glancing
at Lucie. “The other alternative, naturally, is much more to be
desired.”
Lucie glanced up quickly. What did he mean?
A rather embarrassed silence fell upon the group. It was broken by
Captain Du Bois, who went over and stood in front of Lucie and her
mother.
“Dear daughter,” he said, “you know very well that your mother and
I fell in love in the old-fashioned way, and we have always said
that we meant our child should have the same freedom of choice when
the time came. There happens, however, to arise an occasion when we
must ask you to help us in a decision. I am hoping to reëstablish my
business, and Heaven seems to have sent to me one who of all men I
should choose to associate with me as junior partner. Our good friend
Victor Guerin prefers commercial life here rather than life on a farm
at _Coin-du-Pres_, but there are conditions which only you can carry
out. Victor will consent to be my partner only if he can also be my
son-in-law. He has loved you very loyally, served you very faithfully,
dear daughter.”
Lucie’s head drooped very low. Her cheeks were crimson, but she
appeared unable to make any reply.
“Of course this is all in the future,” her father went on, “for your
school days are not over and it will take a long time to get the
business running again, but it must be you who shall decide whether
Victor stay or go, and the decision must be guided not by any interest
for me, but entirely by what your own heart says. If you decide against
him, Victor will return to _Coin-du-Pres_ to carry out the plans which
seem best there.”
Lucie looked across her father at Victor, who was leaning forward
watching her with all his heart in his eyes. “You mean--?”
“That I shall do what seems to be the desire of my family, should this
project fail. I am not a farmer, but I shall try to become one. I am
not in love with Annette, nor she with me, but--”
Lucie sprang to her feet and ran to him, holding out both hands. “Oh,
Victor,” she cried, “please don’t go back to _Coin-du-Pres_. If you
marry Annette I shall be perfectly miserable.”
She ran back to her mother to hide her burning face. “I don’t want the
American knight to ride out of the new year. It is Victor, Victor I
want,” she whispered.
“I have known that for a long time,” her mother whispered back, half
laughing. Victor came over, found one of Lucie’s hands and kissed it
softly, then he rose to face Captain Du Bois.
“God bless you, my son,” said Lucie’s father. “_Vive la France!_”
So Odette was right again, and if ever a year, begun evilly, went out
happily so did 1918 that night. What the new year might bring who could
tell, but that it promised hope, happiness and peace was not to be
questioned.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.