A little maid of Picardy

THERE was more of the town undisturbed than at first was apparent. To be sure the houses so left had been looted and everything of value carried off, but it was astonishing how soon Mrs. Graves and Miss Lowndes were able to make themselves comfortable with what was left and with what they were able to send for, yet it was very far from luxury at the best, and in great contrast to what they were accustomed to in their own homes. Refugees came creeping slowly back to be reëstablished as soon as possible. Many had been living in the cellars under the factories during the time of bombardment and afterward when the Germans were in possession. They did not complain of much ill treatment, but were underfed and sickly, telling many tragic tales of petty tyrannies and of the deportation of all the able-bodied persons in the town, as well as of the destruction of all the fine machines in the factories.

At their end of the town Paulette, Odette and Lucie worked feverishly. They were sure of food and shelter; the rest did not matter. Their energies were bent upon restoring the home so far as possible. First the débris around the shed was cleared to give them free exit and entrance, then the free space was enlarged by degrees. It was not easy to get helpers, for all were occupied in restoring their own, yet Miss Lowndes more than once came to the rescue by sending young Marcus, who loaded up his sturdy machine and carried off a lot of stuff in order that garden space might be had. Nothing could be done with the house at present, but it was found possible to enlarge the shed, construct some rough furniture and install a small stove. As all three lived mostly out-of-doors, they considered themselves not badly housed. By degrees shell holes in the garden were filled up, the earth uncovered and a late garden planted. It was a red-letter day when Lucie discovered that the cherry tree was sending up shoots from its roots and that there were some pale, greeny white sprouts around the grape vines which had been uncovered.

But the biggest surprise of all occurred one morning when she went out and saw sitting on a section of the wall, serenely washing his face, who, but Mousse! For an instant Lucie stared, scarcely believing her eyes. “It couldn’t really be,” she whispered to herself. “It must be some other cat like him.” Then she called: “Mousse, Mousse!” The cat paused in his ablutions, regarding her with a wary eye. She went nearer. The cat ran along the wall a little way, then sat down again to continue his morning toilet. Lucie watched him for a few moments, but fearing to drive him away did not move nearer. Presently she went cautiously to the shed where Paulette was getting breakfast. “Paulette, come out here,” she said; “I am sure that Mousse has returned.”

Paulette smiled. “But that is impossible.”

“I don’t see why. Come and see for yourself.”

“If it be Mousse he had a peculiar mark on one of his hind legs,” said Paulette. “Odette, watch the pot while I go to convince this imaginative child.”

They went out again, Pom Pom following closely at their heels. At sight of the cat Pom Pom gave one quick, sudden bark, but stopped short and with wagging tail approached the wall. With clasped hands Lucie watched the two creatures breathlessly. The cat on the wall did not stir, but gazed down with a blandly tolerant expression at the little dog. Pom Pom began to whine. The cat got up, stretched himself, exhibiting a diagonal line of white across one of his hind legs, and took a position where he could better observe the dog.

“You are right; it is Mousse,” declared Paulette, “and those two have not forgotten each other.” She began to call in a high shrill key as she was accustomed to do in the old days, and found her way slowly along the wall to the place where he sat. The cat did not budge as she drew nearer and nearer making beguiling sounds of invitation; he put his ears forward, listened for a moment, then walked along the wall toward her and jumped down upon her shoulder in his old manner of doing. He did not stay there, however, but leaped to the ground, and stood with bristling tail to face Pom Pom. The dog, however, not in the least disconcerted, kept his guard smiling, if a dog can be said to smile, and insinuatingly wagging his tail. Mousse stood his ground for a moment, fixing Pom Pom with a glittering eye, then his tail began to resume its normal size. He walked up to Pom Pom, the two touched noses and walked off amicably toward the shed. Pom Pom leading the way.

Paulette with hands on her hips laughed long and loudly. “That is a sight I never expected to see,” she declared, “and one I wouldn’t have missed.”

“Where do you suppose Mousse has lived all this time, and how has he found food?” said Lucie.

“There are plenty of rats and mice to be had for the hunting,” Paulette answered, “and it is not impossible that the Boches themselves have given him a bite now and then, though the wonder is they did not carry him away.”

“Perhaps there wasn’t time. He might have had the good sense to hide,” returned Lucie. “Well, Paulette, we are bound to have surprises. I wonder what the next one will be.”

“Let us hope it will be as pleasant as this,” responded Paulette, opening the door before which both cat and dog were standing. “That Mousse must be given food the first thing, though we have none to spare.”

“He shall have half my breakfast,” Lucie promised. But this Paulette would not allow, though Mousse was not to be permitted to go hungry, as a contribution from each one was given him.

“I doubt if he stays, after all,” said Paulette. And he did not at first, though by degrees he spent more and more time with his old friends, accepting Pom Pom with much better grace than in the days of his frisky youth. Possibly it was a case of “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

In course of time Paulette and Odette had a garden to work in. Les Dames Américaines, as they were called, enlarged their work so that in the neighborhood were established little farms where the people could raise their own food and where those soldiers no longer able to be of service at the front could find employment. Dispensaries and hospitals were likewise established, schools, too, and the discouraged people were given food, clothing, and medicines.

After other matters had been given the attention so sorely needed, a canteen was started where passing troops could be fed. On busy days Lucie was often summoned to help. It was after one of these days of rush and excitement that she was coming home and was startled at hearing a lusty but mellow voice singing: “Way down upon the Swanee river.” She stood stock-still waiting for the man to come up. What memories the old song brought. She must see who this was, an American, of course, for many had passed that way in the course of the past twenty-four hours. She waited till the khaki-clad figure was within speaking distance, then she saw that he was as black as the ace of spades, and that he bore a bandaged head. At last she was beholding one of those negroes of which her mother had so often told her. She would speak to him.

“Were you looking for the canteen?” she asked.

The man looked at her then burst into a cheerful guffaw. “Deed, miss, dat sho is perzackly what I is a lookin’ fo’,” he replied. “I done axed severial pussons but somehow dey doesn’t unnerstan’ my desires, an’ I ain’t ketched on to dis yere Frenchified langwidges yit. It sho does son’ good to me to yer ole United States.”

Lucie had some difficulty in taking in this speech herself, but it was clear that he wanted the canteen, and she decided to show him the way. “I think I’d better go with you,” she said. “Were you wounded?”

“Yas, miss, but not to say so bad, jes a little tech o’ shrapnel in de haid, but hit kep me at de dressin’ station an’ I kinder los’ sight o’ de res’ o’ de boys, so I pikes along de road by mahsef. Is yuh one o’ de America ladies dey done tells me about?”

“My mother is an American, but my father is French, so I can speak both French and English.”

“What part o’ de States is yo’ ma fum?”

“From Virginia.”

Another cheerful laugh greeted this information. “Ain’t it de troo? now, fum ole Ferginny. Das jes whar I comes fum. Yo ma is one o’ de fust famblies, I reckons.”

This was a trifle puzzling to Lucie but she replied that her mother’s maiden name was Randolph, which appeared entirely to corroborate the opinion of the man.

“Mah name Gus Fitchett,” he told Lucie, “and I comes ovah to fight dem Bushes fo’ dey git ready to draf me. We gwine bus’ ’em, too, yuh hyar me. We gwine chase ’em clar to Berlin, an’ den kick ’em downhill.” It was evidently not quite clear in his mind just what or where Berlin might be, but it was a word to conjure with, and he wished to impress upon Lucie his good intentions.

Presently the canteen was reached, Gus was conducted in and promptly served with a bowl of soup and a chunk of bread. While he was eating Lucie whispered her report of him to Miss Lowndes. “I never saw a black before,” she said, “but I was curious to see one, and when he began singing ‘The Old Folks at Home’ I knew he was not from any other place than my mother’s country. I can’t understand half he says, but I think he is very funny.”

Miss Lowndes laughed. “Bless you, child, I have been used to that kind of talk all my life. I wonder what we’d better do with him. With that wound on his head he shouldn’t be on the road by himself. I’ll find out where his regiment is, and Marcus can take him on; that will be best.” This was done, but it was not the last of Gus Fitchett, for in a few days he turned up again at the canteen.

“Well, Gus,” said Miss Lowndes, recognizing him, “you’re not lost again, are you?”

Gus grinned. “No, miss, I ain’t los’ dis time, I comes on a purpose. De cunnel, he say I ain’t fittin’ to be roun’ de mess, an’ he say I bettah lay by a few days, gimme leave, he say. He axes me does I wanter go to a res’ hospital, I says no, I doesn’t. He axes me whar does I wanter go, an’ I says ef hit jes de same to him I comes back whar dey talks lak I kin unnerstan’ ’em. He say whar dat. I say whar dat canteen are an’ dem nice Ferginny ladies, dat little specially one what got a muvver name o’ Randolph.”

“Well, Gus, we’ll have to fix you up,” said Miss Lowndes. “You’ll have to have a place to sleep.”

“I sleeps anywhar, on de flo’, in de barn, out o’ doors. Don’ mek no decrimination to me, no, miss, not a bit of decrimination.”

Miss Lowndes bit her lip and told him she would see that a place was found for him, for which interest he was grateful accordingly.

“Whar dat young lady live what bring me here?” he asked after partaking of the coffee Miss Lowndes offered him.

“Miss Lucie Du Bois? Why do you want to know?”

“Well, miss, she mighty nice an’ kin’, an’ I thinkin’ maybe I kin do some chores fo’ huh.”

“But you are away on sick leave; you shouldn’t be doing any work.”

“Doctah he say fo’ me to git outen de trenches an’ into de open a’r whar de guns isn’t so rambuctious. He don’t say nothin’ bout me doin’ little easy chores lak totin’ watah an’ fetchin’ in de wood.”

“Very well, Gus, if that is the way you feel about it, Miss Du Bois lives beyond the church. I will show you. When you leave her come back here to me and by that time I will have found a place for you.” She watched him on his way down the street, then she turned to Mrs. Graves. “I didn’t believe there was one of his variety left. He is an old timer. I’ll venture to say he was brought up by a grandmother of the good old sort.” In which conjecture she was perfectly right.

Lucie, working in the garden, was surprised to hear a soft voice at her side saying: “Miss Lucie, ain’t dey nothin’ I kin do fo’ yuh?”

Lucie looked up to see the tall form of the darkey. “Why, Gus,” she exclaimed. “How is it you are here?”

Gus explained, ending by saying: “’Pears to me lak it mo’ lak home folks when yo ma come fum ole Ferginny.”

“Are you homesick, Gus?” Lucie asked sympathetically.

“Well, Miss Lucie, I mought be ef I was by mahse’f with dese yer Frenchies, but bein’ as I’m hyar I ain’t.”

Lucie understood and was touched. His native state and her mother’s was the same, and he threw himself upon her tender mercies, so she set him to work, knowing he would be happier so. It was incredible what he accomplished in his week’s leave. He adopted the three women as “his fambly” with a niceness of distinction in his manner toward them which it would be difficult to analyze. He adored Lucie as the young lady of the house. He stood ready to carry out her every wish, and this in spite of aching head and tired frame, weakened by loss of blood.

“But there is no fighting yet between the Americans and the Germans,” Lucie said to him, “how then do you come to be wounded?”

“Hit happen dishaway,” replied Gus, very ready to recount the tale; “we alls marchin’ erlong de road. Den erlong come one o’ dese yer tu’key buzzard Bushes, flyin’, flyin’. ‘Look out,’ says de captain, an’ we alls jumps, but I ain’t jump fer enough, an’ I de onliest one git hit. I thinks ole Gabr’el blow his horn fo’ me sho nuff when de blood come a tricklin’ down mah face, but I reckons I good fer a while yet. De ole thing bus’ an t’ar up de groun fo’ all de worl lak ole bull. Miss Lucie, whar I gwine tote dish yer rubbage?”

“Over to the very back of the lot. We are trying to get the place cleaned up from the front backward, so as to have it look nice around the house when my mother gets back.”

“I wishes I had de time to cl’ar hit all up spankin’ clean fo’ yuh. I lak git de insides of de house all cl’ar.”

“You are helping such a lot, Gus. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Ain’t yo ma fum ole Ferginny?” was all the answer Gus vouchsafed.

At the end of his leave he took his departure, wistfully. He would do his duty, but he preferred the gentler ways, and would fain have lingered on, an obedient servant to a considerate young mistress. Even Paulette, who at first had regarded him with violent suspicion, came to see his merits and to appreciate his devotion. They were to hear of him again.

Under the directions of Les Dames Américaines the little town began to resume something of its old look. The good curé helped with his own hands to patch up the church. More and more of the residents returned; then one day there marched in a company of the boys from overseas. An officer looked for places to billet them. The factories whose chimneys were gone, but whose walls stood firm, gave room for a certain number. One of the better houses was taken as headquarters. The streets became full of erect young men who made friends with the children, hobnobbed with the old men, did friendly acts for the old women, and generally made themselves popular. One of the first to stroll into Miss Lowndes’s little office was a young Virginian who appeared more than usually eager to ask questions. He wore the stripes of a lieutenant.

“I am quartered here,” he began. “I wonder if you can tell me anything of the people who are living here and of those who did live here before the town was evacuated.”

“I think perhaps I can tell you something,” replied Miss Lowndes, smiling up into the frank blue eyes. “Was it some particular family you wanted to inquire about?”

“Well, yes—” he began, but was interrupted by the arrival of his captain who had a dozen things to ask about. Taking the first opportunity to say he would come in again, the young man saluted, and strode off down the street. Midway to the church he came face to face with a slender, brown-eyed girl behind whom trotted a small dog who once in a while favored one of his hind legs. “By Jove, that girl’s face looks familiar,” said the man aloud. “I know I have seen her before, but where?”

Lucie looked up and smiled. It might not be the thing to do, but he was an American and she felt kindly toward every one of them.

The smile was encouragement enough for the young man to take off his cap and say: “I beg your pardon, but haven’t we met before?” Then he gave an impatient gesture. “Bother,” he exclaimed, “of course she doesn’t speak English. Pardon, mademoiselle, mais-mais.” He paused helplessly.

Lucie smiled again. “Pardon me, monsieur, but I do speak English.”

“Good! I was sure we must have met, but I cannot remember where.”

“Nor I, monsieur.” She studied his face carefully, “and yet, and yet I seem to have seen you.”

“My name is Philip Randolph, from Virginia.”

“And I am Lucie Du Bois, a native of this place.”

“Not Lucie Du Bois, the daughter of Louise and Marcel Du Bois?”

“Those are the names of my parents.”

“Lucie, little Lucie! My blessed child, I am your uncle Phil!” And without further ceremony he put his arms around her and hugged her tight up to him, to the horror and dismay of an old woman nearing the church.

Blushing and laughing Lucie disengaged herself. “I am so glad, so very glad to see you,” she murmured.

“Let’s go somewhere and talk,” suggested Philip. “I haven’t heard a word from my sister since the first year of the war. We knew this town was occupied by the Germans for a time, that your father was at the front, but what had become of you all there seemed to be no way to find out.”

“There is much to tell,” replied Lucie, a look of sadness passing over her face. “Our home was nearly destroyed, but we are living in a part of it, at least—But here is Paulette. Perhaps you know who Paulette is.”

Paulette with an expression of outraged dignity approached. That Lucie should so far forget herself as to permit an ardent embrace in the eyes of the public, and, so far as she could see, from a perfectly unknown young man, was scandalous. The child must have gone mad.

Lucie, however, seemed not in the least ashamed. She ran to meet Paulette, seized her by the hands and urged her forward. “Such a surprise, Paulette,” she cried. “Who do you think this is?”

Paulette regarded the young man who stood smiling down at her. She shook her head uncompromisingly. “I have never seen monsieur before.”

“Of course you haven’t, but I have, although I don’t remember it, for I was only three years old when mama took me to see her people. This is my Uncle Philip, my very own uncle.”

“Monsieur!” Paulette clasped her hands rapturously. “I ask ten thousand pardons.”

“I am taking him home, Paulette, where we can talk. You will find us there when you come back.”

“I was only a little kid about twelve years old, but I remember what a darling child you were,” said Philip, as they continued their way.

“It is a long time, nearly fifteen years ago, and I am no more a child,” returned Lucie soberly.

“You have had hard times, then?”

“I will tell you.”

She took him to the pathetically poor little home and there she told him all. More than once during the recital he sprang from the broken step upon which they were sitting and paced the walk, biting his lip and muttering under his breath. At the close of her story he broke forth into rapid speech. “My sister! My sister! We must find her. If only I may be spared to look for her, to bring her back. I must try to get in touch with your father. You know where he is?”

Lucie gave him the address, which he carefully wrote down in his notebook.

“What a duffer to think I should find you all in some safe place. If I had only known. If I had only come sooner.”

“What could you have done, my uncle?”

“I don’t know, but I could have tried.”

“We have all tried, my father, our friends, our relatives. The German line is like a sealed wall, one cannot tell what goes on behind it, but we hope, always we hope. Others have come back and so will she. Now that you have come the war will soon be over.”

“Pray God it will. Couldn’t you find a better place than this to live in, Lucie? There are many quite good houses at the other end of the town.”

“Yes, but they are not ours; this is home.”

“You poor, dear, loyal little thing. I know that is the way all the French feel; a foot of earth that is their very own is worth more than another’s acres. Well, we shall have to see about getting a roof on your house, and some windows and doors set in. Has your father seen it?”

“No, we do not wish that he see it till we have it better.”

He smiled at her phrasing. “Well, I must be going. Time’s up. I shall try to see you every day. I don’t know how long we shall be here, not very long, I fancy. By the way, who is that peach of a girl at the canteen?”

“You mean Miss Lowndes? She is my very dear friend.”

“You show good taste. She is a perfect pippin.” And Philip walked off, leaving his little niece looking admiringly after him.

He made a second call upon Miss Lowndes the next morning. “I am Lieutenant Randolph,” he announced himself, “Lucie Du Bois’s uncle. She tells me you are a friend of hers, and I am wondering what we can do to better things for her. She shouldn’t be living in that little hovel all mixed up with the others. They may be used to it, but she isn’t.”

“She prefers it, you see. It has been her one desire to get back here to her old home, no matter in what condition it might be.”

“I understand that, and of course in mild weather it isn’t so hard, but in bad weather it must be awful. I have been trying to get in touch with my brother-in-law, Lucie’s father, but so far have not been able to do so.”

Miss Lowndes was silent for a moment, during which time she made repeated jabs with the point of her pencil into the pad before her. “Then you do not know,” she said presently, “that Lucie’s father has been taken prisoner.”

Philip made a muttered exclamation. “When did you hear?” he asked.

“Only to-day. I have not told Lucie, for I think it is enough for her to be concerned about her mother. Oh, do please hurry up and end this war.”

Philip smiled. “I think you may count on us to do our little best.”

“I am sure of that. You don’t know what faith we all are putting in you.”

“That’s what helps, too. But about Lucie. Isn’t there some way to get one of those little readymade houses?”

“We do get them, yes.”

“They are at least better than what she is living in, and could be used for some one else if the old house is ever rebuilt. It could be set up there alongside the shed, couldn’t it?”

“Surely.”

“Is it a feasible plan?”

“It looks so to me. I will inquire into it.”

“Thanks.” He held out his hand. “We may not be quartered here very long. Miss Lowndes. I may never return; that’s part of the game, you know, but before I leave I should like to feel satisfied that our little Lucie is housed better than a goat or a rabbit.”

“All right,” returned Miss Lowndes smiling, “we will do our best, I promise you. It is quite within our rights, of course.”

“If it is a question of funds,” Philip began.

“Of course that is a consideration. We have none to spare, of course.”

“So I surmised. I’ll foot the bill if you will put the thing over. Is it a go?”

“So far as I am concerned it certainly is. Come in to-morrow morning and I shall be able to tell you more about it, and I think we’d better not say anything to Lucie about her father until she asks questions.”

“I agree with you. I’ll come in to-morrow.”

Miss Lowndes watched him striding down the street, an erect soldierly fellow. “What a nice man he is! what an awfully nice man,” she said half aloud. “I hope he will be billeted here for a long time, for Lucie’s sake,” she added, though back of that wish was one for herself.

She saw him the next morning and the next and the next. In fact there was not a day during his stay that the two did not meet, if only for a moment.