PARIS IN THE SIEGE.
"And Uncle Joe is in France, where the fathers and brothers of those
little Prussian boys have been fighting. I wish I could see it."
There was a thunder and a whizzing in the air and a sharp rattling
noise besides; a strange, damp unwholesome smell too, mixed with
that of gunpowder; and when Lucy looked up, she found herself down
some steps in a dark, dull, vaulted-looking place, lined with stone,
however, and open to the street above. A little lamp was burning
in a corner, piles of straw and bits of furniture were lying about,
and upon one of the bundles of straw sat a little rough-haired girl.
"Ah! Madamoiselle, good morning," she said. "Are you come here to
take shelter from the shells? The battery is firing now; I do not
think Mamma will come home till it slackens a little. She is gone
to my brother who is weak after his wounds. I wish I could offer
you something, but we have nothing but water, and it is not even
sugared."
"Do you live down her?" asked Lucy, looking round at the dreary
place with wonder.
"Not always. We used to have a pretty little house over this, but
the cruel shells came crashing in, and flew into pieces, tearing
everything to splinters, and we are only safe from them down here.
Ah, if I could only have shown you Mamma's pretty room! But there
is a great hole in the floor now, and the ceiling is all tumbling
down, and the table broken."
"But why do you stay here?"
"Mamma and Emily say it is all the same. We are as safe in our
cellar as we could be anywhere, and we should have to pay elsewhere."
"Then you cannot get out of Paris?"
"Oh no, while the Prussians are all around us, and shut us in. My
brothers are all in the Garde Mobile, and, you see, so is my doll.
Every one must be a soldier, now. My dear Adolphe, hold yourself
straight." (And there the doll certainly showed himself perfectly
drilled and disciplined.) "March--right foot forward--left foot
forward." But in this movement, as may be well supposed, little
Coralie had to help her recruit a good deal.
Lucy was surprised. "So you can play even in this dreadful place?"
she said.
"Oh yes! What's the use of crying and wearying one's self? I do
not mind as long as they leave me my kitten, my dear little Minette."
"Oh! what a pretty, long-haired kitten! But how small and thin!"
"Yes, truly, the poor Minette! The cruel people ate her mother, and
there is no milk--no milk, and my poor Minette is almost starved,
though I give her bits of my bread and soup; but the bread is only
bran and sawdust, and she likes it no more than I."
"Ate up her mother!"
"Yes. She was a superb Cyprus cat, all gray; but, alas! one day she
took a walk in the street, and they caught her, and then indeed it
was all over with her. I only hope Minette will not get out, but
she is so lean that they would find little but bones and fur."
"Ah! how I wish I could take you and her home to Uncle Joe, and give
you both good bread and milk! Take my hand, and shut your eyes, and
we will wish and wish very hard, and, perhaps, you will come there
with me. Paris is not very far off."