A little maid of Picardy

WHEN Lucie watched the fluttering ends of Annette’s blue veil disappearing around the corner of the road as she drove away, Lucie little knew that it was the last she should see of her friend for many weeks. It was early spring. The United States had already severed diplomatic relations with Germany and every one was wondering what would happen next. Things were going badly in Russia, but Bagdad had been taken by the British, and the middle of March saw the evacuation by the Germans of French territory from Arras to Soissons.

It was the old doctor who brought the news that the United States had declared war upon Germany. He came driving up in his old cabriolet, and shouting “Vive la France! Vive les Américains!”

Lucie went out to greet him. “What is this? What is this?” she cried.

“Bon jour. Mlle. Demi-Américaine,” said the doctor. “One half of you should be extra proud this day.”

“Oh, why? why?”

“Because your mother’s countrymen have specifically declared war upon Germany. We have always known they were with us in spirit, but now we have this resounding fact. Soon, soon you will see the Stars and Stripes, at the head of American regiments who will be marching with our men. Paris has gone mad with joy. We have always known that we must win one day, but this brings the good day that much nearer.”

Lucie clasped her hands in delight. “The half of me that is American is very proud and glad,” she said, “and the other half is glad, too, not that those brave Americans must suffer, must die, but that their coming brings the end that much nearer.”

“Where is my good friend Antoine Le Brun this morning?” asked the doctor, leading his old white horse around to a hitching post.

“I will find him,” Lucie offered, and ran into the house calling: “Where are you, Grandpa Le Brun? The Americans are coming! The Americans are coming! The doctor has brought this good news.” She ran from room to room with her announcement, and after coming upon Mons. Le Brun at the back of the house, she sent him to join the doctor while she scurried down to Paulette whose spring work in the fields had begun.

She found her in violent altercation with old Jules, for these two seldom missed a chance for argument, out of which, it must be confessed, Paulette usually emerged with flying colors. “Such news! Such news!” cried Lucie as she came within hearing. “The Americans are with us. Their troops will be with us immediately.”

“Aha, my fine sir!” exclaimed Paulette, standing with arms akimbo and shaking her head. “What did I tell you?”

“Zut! I don’t believe a word of it. That is all talk. They will never come. Mark my words.” Jules wagged a skinny and earth-stained forefinger under Paulette’s nose.

“But it is true, I assure you,” persisted Lucie. “The doctor has just brought the news which he says is an absolute fact.”

“Well, let it be a fact,” responded Jules. “Admit that they will come. What are they? Raw, untrained savages. It will take months if not years to get them into any sort of shape. This hue and cry of ‘the Americans are coming!’ sounds very well to those who are easily fooled, but I, for one, am too wise a bird to be caught with such chaff.”

“A bird indeed,” scoffed Paulette contemptuously; “one of the variety that hisses in the barnyard and whose chief use is to supply feathers for beds.” She turned on her heel, leaving Jules stuttering with rage, and uttering epithets more forcible than polite.

“He is an imbecile, that,” remarked Paulette as she walked away to another part of the field. “I am getting very tired of him. These Americans, when do they come, and how soon will they rid the land of those Boches?”

“I suppose one cannot tell, but the doctor evidently believes it will be soon. I have heard him say that the moral effect upon the exhausted armies would be as great as the physical. He has been talking much of the Americans coming in and has put great faith upon them.”

“Then I suppose one may begin to think of returning home.”

“Oh, Paulette, do you really mean it?”

“Why not. Have I ever decided to remain here for the rest of my life? Not at all. It is well enough, this, but where I was born is better, and it is where I should choose to die.”

“But they say there is nothing there. What shall we do to go back to mere handfuls of earth, holes in the ground?”

“There will be more than that, I fancy. There has been destruction, of course, but I have asked and I am told that our little town has not been so hardly dealt with as some others.”

“If you go, then I go, too.”

“You will be better off here, more comfortable.”

“I do not care for that. I want to be there to help resurrect our home and be on the spot when my mother comes. She will come, Paulette, she will, she will. Odette believes it and what Odette believes generally happens.”

Paulette struck her hoe into the brown mold several times before she answered with a little twist of a smile: “Even Odette may not be counted upon as infallible.”

“But you admit she is generally right.”

“Generally, yes, generally, but not always.”

Lucie pondered on this truth rather mournfully, before she said, with a sigh: “If one must lose faith, Paulette, one may as well give up and die.”

“Very true, chérie. Keep your faith. I only wish to prepare you for the worst if it should come.”

Lucie shook her head. “No, I shall continue to follow Odette’s philosophy. One can never be prepared for the worst. If it comes, it is no harder a blow than if one expected it; if it does not come, one will then not have wasted time in grieving.”

She turned away and went back to the house to learn that another piece of news had come with the morning’s mail: Annette was going on to Marseilles with her husband, and would stay with him there until he should receive orders. He might be sent to Italy instead of to Turkey.

Close upon this news came a letter from Miss Lowndes to Lucie. The two had kept up a correspondence all this time, but this letter was of special interest, since it told of a certain undertaking in which Miss Lowndes would take part. “We are trying to restore the evacuated towns in the devastated areas,” she wrote, “and I am hoping that I will be sent to your native place. We hear that it is not so badly wrecked as some, and that some of the people have stayed on. We shall do our best to make these comfortable and the others too who are fast returning.”

Lucie lost no time in running out to Paulette with this letter. She was so out of breath and read so fast that Paulette was bewildered. “Stop, stop, my little one,” she cried. “I cannot keep up with this. Begin over again.”

Lucie began reading more slowly, Paulette making queer muttered exclamations as she continued. At the end the good woman wiped her eyes, then clasped her hands and cast a look heavenward. “At last,” she murmured. “Le bon Dieu restores us at last. Eh bien, my child, I am ready.”

“What shall we do first, Paulette, what shall we do?”

Paulette considered. “We write two letters, one to your father, one to the American young lady. We ask your father if he will permit that you accompany me and Odette back to the home. We ask the young lady when she departs and where we may join her. Then we wait for replies.”

“Excellent, Paulette. How much good sense you have. I will write these letters immediately, and get them off as soon as possible. In the meantime I will talk to Grandpa Le Brun and he will tell the others.” She started off, then came running back to ask: “Paulette, what about the money? Shall we have any to begin on?”

“I have all the wages I have earned here, or nearly all. Odette has hers, and then there is my allotment.” Paulette always talked very grandly of her allotment, but considering that the pay of a common soldier was but a sou a day, one can estimate that the amount paid her as mother of a poilu could not be very munificent.

“I have my allotment, too,” Lucie made the statement, “and of course papa will contribute what he can, just as he pays for my board here. We shall do very well, I believe.”

She went off to write her letters, and it may be stated that she left out no argument in pleading her cause. Then she took her confidence to Mons. Le Brun.

He looked quite aghast when she laid the plan before him. “But, my dear child,” he exclaimed, “this will never do in the world. The place is not yet safe. It is in a condition most wretched, most pathetic. The discomforts will be intolerable for you. Why not consent to remain with us until the war is over, and then if you must go back wait till things are in better condition?”

But Lucie was deaf to all these arguments. “It will have to depend altogether upon what my father says,” she maintained. “As for me I am as able as Mlle. Lowndes or any one to endure privations. If she, an American, can do this for France must I be deprived of what is plainly a duty?” So it was left to hear what Captain Du Bois would say, and Lucie possessed her soul in patience.

She had rather a long time to wait, but the answers came in course of time. First one from her father. He appreciated her feelings in the matter. He had been in communication with Miss Lowndes and had learned that she had asked to be sent to the town which had been, formerly, their home. There would be much to do, and she would be only too glad of helpers, and therefore if Lucie felt it her duty to go, there should be no restriction upon her act. She would best meet Miss Lowndes in Paris and place herself under her care.

Lucie showed the letter triumphantly to Mons. Le Brun. He read it, shook his head doubtfully, but made no further comment than “Eh bien, you go.” A little later he took to pacing the floor, stopped abruptly and exclaimed passionately: “I would to heaven I were going, too, but my wife would perish among such scenes. There is nothing to do but remain. We are too old to begin life over again in want and discomfort.”

Next came the letter from Miss Lowndes. She was enthusiastic. It would be wonderful to have Lucie as a companion, and that dear good Paulette who was a host in herself. They might have privations, probably would, but they would not starve, and it was a splendid work. A few of the better class of refugees were ready to return, though not many. The old curé was eager to head the returning company. They would start the last of the month.

Then there came a day when the basket which Paulette had so hurriedly packed for their flight was repacked for the return with the same utensils carefully hoarded all this time. “We shall need them,” remarked Paulette. The array of bundles and crates far exceeded that with which they had started forth from home, for contributions came from every quarter. The pair of chickens which Paulette had slung in their decapitated condition from her waist was increased to two pairs of live ones donated by Madame Guerin. A pair of rabbits, too, was offered as well as a couple of pigeons. Add to this menagerie Pom Pom, and the confusion of sounds may be imagined, though to the rabbits one cannot impute much of a racket. From none of these things would Paulette be parted. How she managed to dispose of them so that they would not interfere with one another is a puzzle, but manage she did. Lucie, of course, carried Pom Pom. Such acquisitions as Paulette would yield up to her Odette took in charge. Whatever was impossible of being transported by hand was sent on. With the prospect of Paulette’s disappearance from his path Jules ceased to be grouchy and these two parted with many polite expressions of mutual good-will. Michel was almost in tears, the housemaids wept openly. Mons. Le Brun slipped an envelope into Lucie’s hand, “For some one who may need it,” he whispered. Later on Lucie discovered the fifty franc note within.

“Au ’voir! Au ’voir!” followed them till they turned the corner of the road by the Calvary and the white house of Coin-du-Pres was lost to view. It had been truly a haven of refuge, and Lucie trembled a little as she realized that again she was launching out upon the wide sea of uncertainty.

At the station in Paris there was Miss Lowndes to meet them, looking a little older, a little thinner, but as bright and cheerful as ever. At sight of Paulette’s accumulations she was rather staggered for a moment, but she had seen too many refugees to be long nonplussed, and in an incredibly short space of time she had found a man with a handcart into which everything was bundled but the livestock from which Paulette absolutely refused to be parted.

Paris in June was a more attractive place than Paris in November, and Lucie was not sorry to be there. Her satisfaction increased, however, to real enthusiasm when Miss Lowndes told her that the first American troops had already landed and were expected in Paris the next day.

“And we shall see them, Lucie, we shall see them,” Miss Lowndes said to her. “I am so glad that we do not leave before that. I could not have stood it.”

“And we shall see them, Paulette and Odette, too?”

“Surely.”

“How wonderful, how wonderful! It may be that some of my own kin will be among them, although I have no means of finding out. I like to think it, however. Shall you have friends among them?”

“I think so and I shall look out for them, though I shall be so excited I doubt if I can distinguish any one.”

It took some diplomacy for Miss Lowndes to house these newcomers properly. Lucie she bore off to her own boarding house, Paulette and Odette were lodged near by with one Hortense Morand who kept the bakery from which Miss Lowndes’ rolls were served, and who, considering that it was for an exile, was willing to take in not only these two lodgers but the hens, the rabbits and the pigeons.

But if it was difficult to find lodgings for the little party, so much the more was it so to find a vantage point from which they could view the newly arrived troops. All Paris was agog. The streets were crowded, flags were flying, bands were playing. “I suppose there is nothing for us but to mix with the common herd,” declared Miss Lowndes, “and stand on the sidewalk. After all there might be a worse place, for we shall be nearer to the boys than higher up. Here, Lucie, pin on this little American flag. You, too, Paulette, and you, Odette. I think I can make myself known as an American and perhaps we shall receive some consideration in being given room.”

This proved not a bad idea, for they were allowed the edge of a curbstone when Miss Lowndes betrayed her nationality by her speech. They stood patiently for a long time, but at last the cheers began away down the street, growing nearer and nearer. There was enthusiasm enough for their own brave fellows, but when the tall, gaunt, clear-eyed young Americans came marching by, the crowd went wild. They cheered, they wept, they babbled fond blessings. They strewed flowers, they thrust gifts of chocolate into the hands of the smiling lads. They danced to the tune of Dixie; they laughed and kept time with the catchy ragtime music of the bands. The city was taken by storm, for these boys represented not only young America, but the inspirers of a new courage which should lead the way to peace.

Nora Lowndes forgot who she was, where she was, what she was. She was conscious only that these were her countrymen who had come for righteousness’ sake to give their best to France. “Bless every one of you,” she called out, and they, noting the familiar speech, cast smiling glances at her out of the corners of their eyes.

“It was worth waiting for,” sighed Miss Lowndes when the last man had passed. “I am sure I must have known some of them, but I was too dazed to tell. It is a great thing to leave Paris with such a memory as that.”

“I shall remember it forever,” Lucie answered. “I was never so proud of my mother’s country as I am to-day.”

This was the first sight they had of the khaki-clad youths, but it was far from being the last, for in that region to which they were going they were soon to become a familiar sight.

The next day they set out. An older lady joined them. Then two men, French, one American, took them in a motor car which had been designated for this service. More and more desolate the scene became as they advanced. Where had been smiling hamlets were only shattered walls, great shell holes, utter waste. As they went on toward abandoned districts, now evacuated by the enemy, there were more signs of life. The kindly green of grass covered silent places. Birds were singing, wild flowers blooming, but everywhere, everywhere were the rows of little crosses which marked the graves of those who no longer heard the birds or saw the flowers blooming above them.

It was a wearisome journey, for the way was difficult over the roughest of roads. The car was loaded to its fullest capacity for there were many necessities which they must take with them. More would follow as their plans developed. Long before they reached their destination silence had fallen upon the whole group, the silence of fatigue.

At last the car stopped. “This is the place, madam,” said the American driver to Mrs. Graves.

Lucie sprang to her feet and looked eagerly around. It looked strangely unfamiliar. There was the main street with the semblance of some of the houses still standing. The factory chimneys had disappeared. The church tower also. From a few of the houses arose a feeble wisp of smoke. Where were the trees, the gardens? From some forgotten corner a single rosebush reared its head to cast the fragrance of its blossoms upon the mild June air.

“Do you think you could locate your house, Lucie?” asked Miss Lowndes in a troubled voice.

Lucie alighted from the car and looked up and down the street. Finally she discovered the walls of the church, which were in fair condition.

“It should be over there,” she said at last, a little frown puckering her brow, “not very far beyond the church.”

“Drive that way slowly, Marcus, if you please,” said Mrs. Graves.

Slowly the car made its way up the street, both Lucie and Paulette keeping a sharp lookout. Paulette was the first to speak. “There it is,” she announced. “I see the little shed where we kept Ninette. It is still standing. The Le Bruns’ house is gone utterly, but the garden wall is standing there.”

“And some of our house,” put in Lucie eagerly. “One corner is quite destroyed, but I can recognize what is left.”

They left the car and began to examine the premises. The gardens of the two houses were choked with débris from the fallen buildings. The old cherry tree was nothing but a stump. They made their way over the piles of stone, brick and plaster. The house was an empty shell. Only the little shed was quite intact. “We can begin to live here,” remarked Paulette firmly.

Mrs. Graves looked dubiously at Miss Lowndes. “The other end of the town seems to be in better condition,” she remarked. “Perhaps we’d better go there.”

“You can go there, and I should advise you to,” said Paulette, “but for me I stay here.”

“And I too,” declared Odette.

Lucie caught Miss Lowndes’ hand. “Please don’t say I must leave them,” she cried.

“But, my dear, I am afraid you cannot be comfortable. Why not come with us? There seem to be several quite good houses left and I am sure we can find a better place to stay to-night. To-morrow we can see what we can do here.”

“But you don’t understand,” said Lucie agitatedly. “It is my home, my home. For three years, nearly, I have longed for it.”

“My dear, my dear, I do understand. Suppose we examine the shed and see what it looks like.”

They struggled over the stones to reach it to find it the one thing unchanged. Evidently it had not been used. The winds of winter had swept through it, the rains of spring had fallen upon it, but had not harmed it. Inside it was dry, warm, and if not quite clean, at least it was not so foul a place as that cow shed Lucie remembered.

Mrs. Graves and Miss Lowndes regarded it critically, then they exchanged glances. “You may bring in the cots, Marcus,” said Mrs. Graves.

In half an hour the shed was swept out, the cots set up, the bedding provided. Then, leaving the little family to do what they would, the two American ladies started out to find quarters for themselves.

After a little supper in the open Lucie went to explore, leaving Paulette to house her live stock. Pom Pom, in puzzled curiosity, went nosing all over the place. Lucie found the steps of the house and mounted them. The door was shivered to bits. She crept within the walls, avoiding bits of glass, slivers of wood, picking her way from spot to spot, trying to discover some token of what had been hers.

She was gone so long that Odette and Paulette went to look for her. They found her sitting on the topmost step, her head buried in her arm. She was sobbing her heart out, for the fragment of stuff which she clutched in her hand was a bit of the very dress her mother had worn the morning before she went away.