From the outer room the voice of Jacques replied: "Yes, ma petite; I am
here."
He came and put his arms about her; she laid her head against his rough
coat, but her eyes were turned toward the empty bed. She was trying to
remember.
Presently she sat up and asked: "Did the angel come and take grand'mère
and carry her to the Holy Mother in heaven?"
Jacques crossed his heart. "Yes, ma petite," he said.
Faintly Claire René smiled and faintly she questioned: "But, my
brothers?"
Jacques turned his troubled eyes away. She must wait, he said; when she
was strong they would talk of many things. He told her that he had
brought food to make her well, and that on the first warm day he would
himself carry her out into the sunshine of the forest; there she would
again run and sing and be like a happy, bright bird.
In the days that followed Claire René never spoke of grand'mère; she
never spoke of her three brothers. She lay in her bed and stared about
the quiet room. The silence was different, now that grand'mère was gone.
Everything was different.
Jacques gave her food and care, and every day he said: "In only a little
time you will be strong again, ma petite."
But something in his eyes kept her from speaking about Clément and
Fernand and Alphonse. Often she thought about the telegrams upstairs in
the high, white bed. She wondered if Jacques had found them there. Once
she heard him walking on the floor above. He was there a long time, and
when he came down his voice was queer and deep and his eyes were hidden
behind a mist.
He never spoke any more about the "Great Man from America." Jacques was
like grand'mère; he was old, he was full of sorrow. Claire René was
afraid to ask about her letter; she thought about it each day.
But on the morning she was carried to Clément's chair by the chimney
corner, she felt a great gladness spring in her heart. Yes; they would
come soon--her three brothers. To-morrow she would be strong enough to
walk alone to the dark closet under the stairs and look again at the
three wreaths on the highest shelf.
Claire René smiled in her sleep that night; she dreamed of laughter in
the house, of strong young arms about her, of quick steps and bright
eyes.
Once she awoke and must have called out, for Jacques was kneeling beside
her bed.
"Poor little one," he said, "you call, but there is only old Jacques to
come."
Claire René put out her hand and let it rest on the old man's head.
"Dear Jacques," she whispered, "always I will love you."
The sun was streaming through the tiny house the next morning. Jacques
had left Claire René sitting in the warm light of the open doorway while
he went to bring wood from the forest. There were no birds singing from
the leafless trees, but Claire René saw a sparrow hopping about on the
bright brown earth of the garden patch. She was wishing she had a great
piece of white fat to hang out on a tree for the bird's winter food;
wishing there were crumbs to leave on the window ledge, as grand'mère
used to do.
She was wishing so hard about so many things that she failed to see
three men coming out of the forest. They were tall and straight and
fair, and their eyes were as blue as the sky above their heads. Their
clothes were the color of pale brown sand and on their heads were jaunty
caps of the selfsame color.
Jacques was with them; he was making a great many motions with his
hands. They were all walking very slowly and talking very fast.
As they neared the house Jacques pointed to Claire René, and the three
strange men held back. Jacques came slowly forward. The sound of his
step on the hard ground interrupted Claire René's reverie; she looked up
and around. She saw the three men standing at attention beyond the
garden gate.
She threw back the heavy cloak wrapped about her; the thin folds of her
calico dress hung limply from her sunken shoulders, and above the wasted
child body the sun spun circles of gold in her tangled hair. She made a
slight quivering start toward Jacques, which passed into a rigid stare
toward the three figures beyond.
She was unaware when Jacques put a caressing, supporting arm about her
and said: "Listen, my child."
The three men were coming forward. One of them had a letter in his hand.
With kind eyes and bared heads they stood before the straining gaze of
Claire René.
"The letter is for you, ma petite." Jacques voice was infinitely tender;
the added pressure of his arm made Claire René conscious of his
presence; she suddenly clung to him and buried her face in his coat
sleeve. He went on to say: "The letter is for Claire René--from the
'Great Man from America'!"
The tangled head shook in the angle of his arm. Claire René was crying.
The tallest of the three men handed the letter to Jacques; he wiped his
eyes and turned his head away. The others shifted in position and
tightly folded their arms across their broad chests.
Jacques read:
_To Mademoiselle Claire René_: The soil of France now covers the
bodies of your three brothers, Clément and Fernand and Alphonse
Populet. The soil of France covers the Croix de Guerre upon their
breasts. The sons of France, and of America, hold forever in their
hearts the memory of their honor. We are all one family now--France
and America--and so I send to you three brothers--not in place of,
but in the stead of those others. They come to give you love and
service in the name of America.
Claire René slowly moved apart from Jacques. She stood alone with head
erect and taut arms by her sides. She hesitated a moment, then came
forward and held out her hands.
"Bonjour, messieurs," she said.
The tallest of the three men covered her hands with his own. "Little
friend," he said, "we can't make you forget your brothers; we want to
help you remember them. We want to do some of the things for you that
they used to do, and we want you to do a lot of things for us. We are
pretty big, it is true, but we need a little girl like you to sort of
keep us in order. We want to take you right along with us this very
day--to a place where we can care for you, and----"
But Claire René slipped with electric swiftness to Jacques' side; from
his sheltering arm she made declaration: "Never! I stay here with
Jacques--always." Then struggling against emotion she added with
finality: "I thank you, messieurs."
The tall man lingered with his thoughts a moment before he spoke; he was
standing close to Claire René and made as though to lay his hand upon
her hair, but drew back and said that they were all pretty good cooks
and that they were very, very hungry.
At this Claire René threw a frightened, wistful glance at Jacques.
The tall man interrupted hastily. He said they had brought food with
them, and would she allow them to prepare it?
Claire René nodded her head; her eyes looked beyond her questioner--out
into the lonely forest.
Jacques presently lifted her into his arms and carried her within the
house. With reverence he placed her in grand'mère's chair by the window.
Her ears were filled with distant echoes; her sight was blurred; speech
had gone from her lips. As through a dark curtain she saw the figures
moving about the room; far away she heard the clatter and the talk and
sometimes laughter.
After a long time Jacques came and held some steaming coffee to her
lips. He made her drink and drink again; a pink flush crept into her
cheeks; shyly she met the glances from the eyes of those three fair,
kind faces. Then her own eyes filled with tears and she lowered her
head.
The tallest of the three men came behind her chair and spoke gently,
close to her ear: "Our great and good commander, who sent us here, will
be very unhappy if you do not come. You see, he wanted the sister of
Clément and Fernand and Alphonse Populet to be a sister to some of his
own boys. It would help us a great deal, you know; we're pretty lonely
too--sometimes."
The collaboration in the faces of his friends seemed to put an instant
end to his effort and, as if an unspoken command were given, they all
sat down and made a prompt finish to the meal.
With no word on her lips Claire René watched from Grand'mère's chair by
the window. About her, figures moved like dim marionettes; they cleared
the table; they polished the copper pans; they sat in the chimney corner
and puffed blue circles of smoke above their heads.
Dimly she saw all this, but clearly she saw the inside of a great man's
mind. She, Claire René, had work to do; she was called--for France!
Long, slanting shadows from the sinking sun were streaking the wall of
the whitewashed room with slender, forklike fingers. Jacques and the
three men were knotted in talk beside the ruddy fire glow. Claire René
braced herself with a sharp sigh. No soldier ever went into battle with
a more self-made courage than hers.
Unseen, unnoticed, noiselessly she made her pilgrimage across the room.
In the dark closet, under the stairs, she reached for the wreaths. With
quick, short breath she gathered them in her arms. One moment she
lowered her head while her lips touched the faded crackling flowers. The
compact was sealed; her sacrifice was ready.
In that attitude she passed swiftly within the circle about the
fireplace. She came like a spirit of Peace with the wreaths in her arms.
Over and above the serenity in her face there dawned a joyous
expectancy. Yes; she could trust les Américains!
On each reverent, bowed head she placed her wreath; and when she had
finished, without tremor in her voice she said: "My brothers!"