He would always answer, straightening in his chair: "Yes, my little one,
be not afraid. Jacques is ever near."
Claire René would sigh and go back to her work and wish that she was big
enough to go out into the forest and shoot birds, as Jacques used to do.
She was very hungry. She was tired of eating roots from the garden.
She would like to lie down and go to sleep for the rest of her life, or
die and go to heaven and have the Holy Mother hold her in her arms and
feed her thick yellow milk. Jacques no longer brought even thin blue
milk. There was no coffee in the cupboard, no sugar, no bread--only
hateful roots of the garden.
Claire René no longer walked in the forest. Sometimes she would lie down
on a mossy place and look up through the tall trees at the patches of
blue sky overhead. She wondered whether the good God still kept His home
above, whether He, too, were hungry, whether the Holy Mother had work to
do when her back ached and her fingers wouldn't move and were thin and
bony, like young dead birds that sometimes fell from nests.
Once, when Claire René was thinking such thoughts, she saw Jacques come
running toward her. His eyes were bright and shiny, and she had a fear
that they might drop out of his head, as the quick breath dropped out of
his mouth.
"Listen, ma petite!" he cried.
He dropped on the mossy place beside her and rocked back and forth with
his hands clasped about his shaking knees. Claire René was used to
waiting. She waited until Jacques found breath for speech.
Then he told her how the "Great Man from America" was coming to save
France! How he was sending a million strong sons before him. How there
was hope come to heavy hearts!
Claire René wanted to ask a great many questions. But Jacques went right
on, talking, talking--about the right flank and the left flank and the
boches and the Americans. Claire René hoped his tongue would not be too
tired to answer one of her questions.
"What is America, my little one? Why, the greatest country in the world,
excepting France. Where is America, my little one? Why, across the
Atlantic Ocean, far from France."
Claire René sat very still with her hands in her lap. Jacques was a wise
man. He knew a great deal. All old people were wise; but such strange
things made them happy, far-away things that they couldn't ever touch or
see, things out in the big world that went round and round. She knew
that Clément and Fernand and Alphonse were out in the big world, going
round and round; but in her heart she saw them only in the forest, in
the garden patch, by the hearth in the tiny house, asleep in their high
white bed.
In these places she could still feel their arms about her, hear their
laughter, listen for their step. But out in the world! What were they
doing? How could she know? Jacques made her feel very lonely. Never once
did he speak of her three brothers; on and on he went about the "Great
Man from America."
Presently he ceased for a moment and held Claire René's cold hands
against his grizzled cheek. "But, my little one, why are you cold?"
Claire René looked for a long time into Jacques' shining eyes; then she
whispered: "My brothers!"
High among the tall trees of the forest the wind was singing and
sighing; beneath on a green moss bank Jacques gathered Claire René in
his arms; he gathered her up like a baby and rocked her back and forth.
He cried and laughed into the bright tangle of her hair.
"My poor little one! My poor little one!" he said over and over. Then he
released her from his arms and held her face between his knotted hands.
"Now, listen!"
She listened, and even before Jacques had finished a song began in her
heart--so strong and high and true that it reached up into the treetops
and joined in the chorus of the forest.
The words that came from the lips of Jacques made a great beating in her
ears. Could it be so--what he was saying--that the "Great Man from
America" had come to save all the Brothers of France? That soon, soon he
would send Clément and Fernand and Alphonse back to the tiny house in
the forest? That all the wicked men in the world would be no more? That
the great and terrible noise would cease--forever?
Jacques was very, very sure that he was right about it; he had read it
all in a newspaper; he had walked miles and miles to hear men talk of
nothing else.
Claire René asked where the great man lived.
"In Paris, ma petite."
"And what does he look like--the brave one?"
"He is grave and quiet, like a king."
"And has he on his head the crown of gold?"
"No, ma petite, but he has in his heart the Sons of France."
"And Clément and Fernand and Alphonse also?"
Claire René waited while Jacques passed his fingers through her hair.
"Yes, ma petite," he said at last.
Claire René wished that she had more hands and feet and lips and eyes
and more than such a little body to hold her joy. She made circles of
dancing about Jacques on their way back to the cottage. She said her
happiness was so great that she might fly up into the sky and laugh
from the tops of the trees. "Dear Jacques," she said as they paused at
the dried garden patch, "do you think to-morrow they will come--my
brothers?"
Jacques shook his head.
"Do you think one day from to-morrow?"
Again Jacques shook his head.
But Claire René was busy in her thoughts. She turned suddenly and threw
her arms about him. "Will you again walk the miles of the forest for
Claire René, will you?"
"But--why--for what reason, ma petite?"
She would send a letter! She would herself write to the "Great Man," and
tell him about Clément and Fernand and Alphonse, tell him how good and
brave they were, and about grand'mère and the silence of her eyes and
ears, and about--Claire René looked frightened and clapped her fingers
over her mouth.
No! She must forever keep the secret about the telegrams. Telegrams
meant sorrow; there must be only happiness in the house for the
brothers.
Long after twilight had fallen she pleaded with Jacques about the
letter. By the firelight that same night she would write. Grand'mère had
taught her to make the letters of many words; she knew what to say. In
the first light of the day Jacques could be gone to the post. And then!
Yes?
Not until he finally nodded his head was she satisfied. Then she
wondered why so suddenly he had become heavy with sadness. Why, when she
watched him trudge off into the forest, had he seemed to carry a burden
on his bent back?
She thought: "Old people are like that. Grand'mère is like that; she,
too, grows tired with the end of the day. They had so many long days
behind them to remember--grand'mère and Jacques. And the days ahead of
them?"
Claire René was often puzzled about their days ahead. They were so
tired! But they would be soon happy. And grand'mère would open her eyes
to see and her ears to hear when Clément and Fernand and Alphonse came
back again.
Claire René ate only a mouthful of her cooked roots on that evening. For
grand'mère she made a special brew of dried herbs from the forest and
baked a cake from the last bit of brown flour left in the cupboard.
Grand'mère was half the shape she used to be; the brothers would surely
scold when they saw her so gone away.
Claire René piled the logs high on the fire; she must have light for her
work, plenty of light. She searched the house for paper and envelope and
pencil and when she had written she threw the paper into the fire and
wept with a passion much too great for her years and her body. She had
forgotten the words; they wouldn't come. And who was she to be writing
to the "Great Man," a man like a king?
Until the dawn crept through the windows Claire René lay upon the hearth
by the dying fire, sobbing through her sleep. The first light of day
made her remember Jacques. He would be waiting! He had promised to go,
to walk to the post with her letter. She looked at the dark closet under
the stairs. She thought of the three wreaths; if she could make wreaths,
she could make letters! She bounded to her feet; she seized the last of
the paper and the bitten pencil; she struggled with the letters; she
wrote: "Dear Great Man: My brothers----"
A step in the still room startled her. Grand'mère was coming from her
room, fully dressed. Claire René flew to her side, but Madame Populet
stood erect; she walked alone to her chair by the window. Claire René
knelt beside her, and the hands that were laid on her head had a new
firmness in their pressure. And grand'mère was smiling!
Claire René thought: "She is happy this morning; she feels in the air
the gladness. I will make her a hot brew when I come back from Jacques."
She wrapped a dark cloak about her shoulders; in her hand was tightly
clasped the half-written paper and the pencil. At the doorway she turned
and called: "Good-by, grand'mère. Good-by."
Madame Populet was still smiling; her face was turned toward the forest
and, through the sweeping willow over the window, sunbeams laid their
fingers on the sightless eyes.
Two hours later Claire René walked through the forest singing. Her arms
were full of scarlet leaves and branches of holly berries. She wanted to
carry all the beautiful things she saw back to the cottage, to make the
place a bower, where she and grand'mère and Clément and Fernand and
Alphonse could kneel and thank the good God that they were again
together.
All the world was kind on this morning. Jacques had been waiting for her
at the door of his wooden hut. He had helped her with the letter. He had
set out straightway to the post. Claire René had stooped and kissed the
feet that had so many miles to go.