A little maid of Picardy

IT was in the middle of the night that Lucie woke with a consciousness of something missing. The little furry ball always curled up at her feet was not there. She sat up in bed. “Pom Pom” she called softly, feeling along the edge of her cot and reaching over toward the foot. But no moist little tongue licked her hand in response. “He has gone to Paulette,” decided Lucie, for once in a great while he took a notion to cuddle down by the older woman. Having made up her mind that this was the way of it Lucie snuggled down again and it was not till morning that she discovered that Pom Pom was really gone.

“He was here last night when Victor came,” said the girl distressedly. “You remember, Paulette, how he jumped on Victor and barked so sharply that to stop him Victor took him in his lap.”

“He may have followed him downstairs and have been shut in—or out,” Paulette suggested.

“Then he would be back by now scratching at the door. He has lingered once or twice down there but always he has come back in a hurry; he would do it now.”

“Unless some one picked him up.”

“Oh, Paulette, what a dreadful thought!” Lucie clasped her hands agitatedly. “I will go down at once to see if Mathilde knows anything about him.” This was no sooner said than done. Downstairs flew Lucie to find and question Mathilde.

“But no, mademoiselle,” said Mathilde. “The little dog? Yes, yes, I know him well. I have not seen him, nor have I heard him. If he had come to the door I would have let him in, for I would have understood, I, that one does not like to lose a pet. There is sorrow enough that cannot be avoided in these days without adding anxiety over a loss of that kind.”

“If you should see him, madame. If you will inquire of those in the neighborhood when you have a chance. Some one may have picked him up without knowing where he belongs.”

“If I find him I will send him up to you flying. Rest assured of that.”

This was the best that could be done and Lucie returned very miserable. “Is it not true that troubles never come singly?” she said. “Victor brings me sad news of my grandfather and now comes the loss of my darling Pom Pom.”

“But Monsieur Victor also brought you good news of your father. Do not despair so soon, little one. The day is but begun; you may have him safe before I get home. Have you inquired of Odette?”

“No, for it seemed no use.”

“It will do no harm, for he may have scratched at our door and we may not have heard him. I sleep heavily these days, and then he may have gone to Odette as the next friend to rely upon. I go now, chérie. Do not despond.”

She went out and Lucie followed as far as the next door, upon which she tapped. The doors now were not locked since the two little girls had become intimates and wished to run back and forth at will. Hearing no response to her rap Lucie went in. Odette was sitting, elbows on window sill, staring out into the street. It was a gray day, somber and chill, for winter was at hand. “Have you seen Pom Pom?” Lucie made her query without further delay.

“Pom Pom? No, why, have you lost him?”

Lucie dropped down on the floor and covered her face with her hands. “He is gone, gone, the dear little dog whom I loved so well, and, whom I promised to take good care of.”

“When did you see him last?”

“When Victor was here last evening. He was so overjoyed when Victor arrived. You never saw such delight. Paulette thinks he may have followed Victor downstairs, but of course Victor would have sent him back.”

“If he saw him. This is what I think; that he followed your friend to the street. Monsieur sent him back. He returned to find the door shut.”

“He would have waited there till morning unless some one picked him up. Oh, Odette, I have lost him, lost him, and now I no more have a dear little dog to love me and to love.”

“But you have others; me, I have no one, not even a dog to love or to love me.”

Lucie looked up through her tears. “But Odette, I love you.”

Odette smiled rather sadly. “Not as you do Pom Pom. You would not weep if you were to lose me out of your days. Don’t cry, Lucie. Let us go out and look for him. This is such an unusual occasion that I think we need not ask permission. We will need to go only around the neighborhood.”

It was a comfort to Lucie that she could make some active effort toward looking for the little dog, but though they went from dairy to bakery, from bakery to butcher shop, and so on the rounds no one had seen or heard anything of the lost Pom Pom. So they returned quite hopeless and discouraged, and Lucie spent a melancholy day.

Odette tried to comfort her as best she could, succeeding in making her laugh more than once, though immediately she would lapse into a fit of weeping. “I shouldn’t care so much if I could know he would be well cared for,” she mourned. “A little dumb beast is so helpless; he cannot tell his troubles if he is neglected and ill treated. He has never known anything but kindness.”

“Then he is better off than many human beings,” returned Odette somberly.

Lucie looked at her through her tears. “Odette, are you ill treated?” she asked.

“I suppose one should not mind harsh words, and should not call oneself ill treated who has nothing more than that, but, you see, even your dog wanted affection, and you are mourning because you think he has none, or, perhaps, has none, while I—there is not a soul on earth to give me a word of love, much less a caress.”

Lucie moved close up to her and put her arms tightly around her. “My little Odette,” she whispered, “my dear Odette whom I love. I shall miss my dear dog, but I am thankful that I have you, my friend.”

“Lucie, Lucie,” murmured Odette, “you do not know how I love you, how I have longed to have you love me. I am only a little peasant girl, but I can be faithful and true. Do you know that many times when I have seen you fondling your dog I have wished that I, too, were a dog, for then some one might be as good to me as you were to Pom Pom.”

“That seems very sad,” returned Lucie, “but it is better to be a friend than a dog, and that you are and always will be. Do you know what I think, Odette? I think when this war is over that it would be a fine thing for you to go back with us to our town. We must see about that. I shall talk of it to Paulette who already likes you so much. She is not one to take fancies, but she has said to me: ‘She is a bright one, that Odette. With a little training and experience she will do well,’ and that is a great deal for Paulette to say, for she is very chary of her praise.”

“This may be a sad day for you, Lucie, but it is a very happy one for me, or would be if you were not so miserable.”

“I shall try not to be miserable, for who knows what may happen before the day is out? That is what my mother used to tell me. So bright and cheerful, such a sunny nature, mother had. I think, Odette, that all other sorrow would seem as nothing if I could see her again. Even if I knew her to be safe and well, I could be cheerful.”

“I can understand that,” Odette agreed. “That day may come, and sooner than you expect.”

It seemed that Odette was a true prophet, for that very evening the clouds began to break away for Lucie. “Well, mademoiselle,” said Paulette when she came in, “who is sending you presents? Here is a letter too.”

“But alas, no news of Pom Pom,” returned Lucie.

“I do not yet despair. He may be shut up somewhere and will come to us fast enough when he is free.”

This sounded encouraging, so Lucie opened her letter. “It is from Victor,” she announced, beginning to read.

“Humph!” exclaimed Paulette. “He loses no time.”

Lucie paid no attention to this; she was eagerly reading the page before her. “Paulette, Paulette,” she cried suddenly, “listen to this. Oh, that bad Pom Pom!”

Paulette dropped the soup ladle-back into the kettle. “Mon Dieu!” she cried. “What is this about Pom Pom?”

“Listen and I will read about that ungrateful little one. This is what Victor writes: ‘Dear Lucie: The train is about to start but before it goes I must tell you that Pom Pom is here and that I shall have to take him with me as there is no time to return him to you. The boys will be happy to receive him as a mascot, and I hope no harm will come to him. I know you will miss him, but if we come out of this safely you shall have him again. Au revoir. Victor. P.S. Nenette and Rintintin send their respectful greetings. That little rascal Pom Pom followed me all the way, but I did not discover it till too late, for he kept well behind me. V.’ Did you ever know a dog so clever? He knew perfectly well that he should not go with Victor, but it is as I said on Sunday; he loves Victor best, for he was his first beloved. That is constancy for you.”

“There is no friend more faithful than a dog,” returned Paulette, beginning again to dip out the soup.

“We shall miss him,” said Lucie sadly, “but I am sure he felt that he owed his first duty to his master. I was a second consideration. Very well, that must be accepted. I am glad to know that at least he is in good hands. I must tell Odette.”

“Take your soup first.”

“It is very hot and I will not stay a minute.”

“I know the minutes of maidens,” grumbled Paulette.

But Lucie was not to be deterred, and went off, her minute truly lengthening to five. Paulette, however, in spite of her grumbling, poured her bowl of soup back into the pot where it kept hot for her.

“I should like to open the parcel,” said Lucie between spoonfuls of soup. “I haven’t the least idea what it is, have you, Paulette?”

“Not I.”

“But who could have sent it? What is it like? Did you feel it?”

Paulette smiled. “Such curiosity. It feels like a box, or, no, like something hard. One does not get many boxes these days. C’est la guerre.”

“Are you sure it is for me?”

“There is the name, the street, the number, even the floor. Madame Mathilde gave it to me with the letter as I came in.”

“If I were not so hungry I would open it directly. Do you think this a pretty good soup, Paulette?”

“Not so bad.”

“Will not mamma be surprised when she learns how I can cook a meal all by myself?”

Paulette was silent.

“Oh, I know what you are thinking; you do not believe that we shall see mamma again.”

“I said nothing.”

“No, but I know that look which means so much. I was very doubtful myself before this news of Pom Pom. I have been so unhappy all day, Paulette, and but for Odette I think I should have died. What should I do without Odette when I have no more a Pom Pom?”

“It is a great satisfaction to me that you have some one to keep you company while I must be away.”

“And some one of whom you approve, for you do approve of her, don’t you? Of course she is not of Annette’s class, but she is a dear, fine girl and I shall love her always and keep her as my friend. When mamma knows her she will not object, I am sure.”

“You are speaking very often of your mamma this evening.”

“Yes, because something tells me that I shall see her again. That report of papa which Victor gave us has somehow given me a feeling of being nearer to my parents. For a time I felt as if I had none. Now I feel that I have.”

“Heaven grant that it may be so,” responded Paulette piously as she rose from the frugal meal and began to clear the table.

It was a scantily furnished, poor little place, two rooms and a queer sort of kitchenette contrived from a dark closet where a sink and running water were established, together with a tiny stove. It was already a problem how they were to be kept warm in winter. The larger of the two rooms held Paulette’s cot, three chairs, a table, and a set of shelves which served as cupboard. In Lucie’s room was her cot with one chair and an iron washstand over which hung a small mirror. The floors were uncovered and the only household utensils were those which had been brought from the old home in that basket which was retained instead of the one containing food. More than once Paulette and her charge had congratulated themselves that it was this instead of the other basket.

“The food would have been eaten long ago,” Paulette declared, “but look what remains.”

The matter of clearing away did not occupy many minutes and then Lucie opened her package. It was done up firmly, but with not more paper than barely necessary, so it was almost at once that Lucie saw the contents. “Of all things, Paulette,” she cried, “a pair of shoes! It is you who have done this to play a joke upon me.”

“You are quite on the wrong track, my dear,” responded Paulette, picking up one of the shoes and examining it carefully. “Even supposing I had the will I could not have afforded shoes like these. You should try them on.”

This Lucie did not hesitate to do, stretching out her little foot to be admired. “Do you see, Paulette? They fit exactly, a trifle wide, perhaps, but that is a good fault. Now who in the world could have chosen so exactly but you? No one else but Odette could possibly know the size, and poor Odette has no money to spend on a gift. Come, Paulette, confess that you have done this to give me a pleasant surprise.”

“But I tell you that I have nothing to do with it. Shall I then take credit for a thing which I have not done? No, no, my child, it is some other and I can guess who. I may be a stupid old pig but it does not tax my brains to guess the giver.”

Lucie put on the other shoe and sat looking admiringly at her outstretched feet, all the time at a loss to read a puzzle which the older woman had so readily solved. She picked up the paper which had come around the shoes and examined the address attentively. She shook out the paper, then she took off the shoes and looked inside. “I cannot guess,” she said at last.

Paulette laughed a little grimly. “This person took your measure very correctly, nevertheless. It was a clever trick. The good heart, the good heart of him, and the delicacy. Otherwise one could not accept, no, of course, one could not. Now there is nothing to say. There is no proof possible. One can only use guesswork, but that is easy enough.”

Then suddenly it dawned upon Lucie. “Victor!” she cried. “Of course I remember now that he made me step upon the newspaper, and that the footprint, that very muddy footprint, was quite distinct. He folded up the paper and put it back in his pocket. I wondered a little at his doing that.”

“One can see through a millstone,” responded Paulette. “Even I have solved deeper riddles.”

Lucie continued to regard the shoes thoughtfully. “It is as you say, Paulette, under different circumstances I could not accept them. Even now it seems very strange that Victor Guerin should be giving Lucie Du Bois a pair of shoes. I think even now I shall have to ask him outright, and I shall not wear the shoes till I have his answer.”

Paulette nodded approbation of this proud speech. “Continue to keep your pride as long as you can, my child,” she said. “We may have to accept help but the moment has not come yet.”

“If it does come,” returned Lucie, “I hope I may be able to return it in a proper way. I shall write to Victor at once.”

But before an answer could come to her letter came direct news from her father which relieved her mind as well as Paulette’s. “You cannot imagine, my precious child,” he wrote, “the great relief which Victor Guerin’s letter brought me. All this time and not a word from you! My imagination has pictured a thousand dreadful things which might have befallen you. That you are safe and well gives me great joy, and it is the utmost satisfaction I feel in knowing that you are with Paulette who will take good care of you, I am sure. I have made arrangements to have a certain sum paid you every month, and this I hope will give you more comfort. I have nearly recovered my health and expect soon to go back to my duties.” Then followed definite directions about the monthly allowance, words of endearment, messages to Paulette and a promise to write often, but the closing words, “Not a line from your mother,” were discouraging.

Lucie could scarcely wait for Paulette to come home on the day this letter was received, and there was great danger that the dinner would either be spoiled or that there would be no dinner at all. A dozen times the child ran out to see if she could catch sight of Paulette toiling up the stairs. At last appeared the well-worn shawl, the black handkerchief tied around the head. “Paulette, Paulette,” cried Lucie, “come quickly. I have news, good news.”

Paulette quickened her tread and arrived quite out of breath. “Madame? Your mother?” she panted.

“No,” Lucie caught her breath quickly, “but a letter from papa at last. Come in and I will read it to you. How tired you are, my poor Paulette, but never mind, you shall hear the news and that will make you feel better.” She read the letter, interrupted by many exclamations and comments and when she had finished she rushed over to hug the good woman who, brave enough under misfortune, was wiping her eyes at this good news.

“Now we need have no fear of the winter,” said Lucie excitedly. “We shall be able to keep warm and to have more food. Will it be enough, this money, to keep us without your working, Paulette? I do dislike to see you coming home so worn out. You walk all the way and it is not well for you to stay in that heated place and then come out into the cold.”

“It is better that I walk,” protested Paulette, “for I am less liable to take cold doing so. As for my not working, my little child, that is not to be thought of. Better that we have more comforts than merely eke out a subsistence. However, I can look out for something better and who knows what chance may bring?”

“It seems as if there were no evil without some good,” remarked Lucie reflectively. “I miss Pom Pom so very much; this morning it seemed as if I could not endure it, then came this letter. Dear little Pom Pom, I do hope he is well and happy. He will be if it depends upon Victor.”

“This money of which your father speaks. How does one get it? Read that again.”

Lucie re-read the part relating to the money. “You see,” she said, “that we have no trouble about it. Some one will bring it to us, which is very good. I wonder how soon. I shall have to open the door to whoever it is, Paulette.”

“I will speak to Mathilde about that. She will interrogate and if it is a proper person there can be no objection. She has the face of a fish and the manner of an ill-tempered goat, but she is not so bad. The heart is there, though one must not expect always to find it.”

“She was very, very kind and interested about Pom Pom, and how she laughed when I told her of his following Victor. ‘When one of them wants to be a poilu there is no keeping them,’ she said. I think she is very fond of animals, more than of people.”

“Probably with good reason,” returned Paulette.

“Even though I no longer have Pom Pom I shall not be lonely to-morrow,” remarked Lucie, “for I shall write a long letter to my father, and I shall begin to expect a letter from Victor and to look for the person with the money. We are having a good deal of excitement, Paulette.”

Paulette shrugged her shoulders. “Thank heaven it is not of a different kind.”