When Pierre returned home he had much to tell his mother and Marie, you may be sure, of his visit to Pont-de-Saint-Michel, and of the new friend he had made at the Gaspard mills.
Now that the rush of handling the cocoons was over the days were not so crowded, and although there was still plenty to keep the Bretton family busy, Pierre and Marie resumed their normal routine of life, having daily lessons with Monsieur le Curé, and aiding their mother in the regular round of household tasks. There was a thorough cleaning of the silk-house that it might be in readiness for the coming season; then there was the money from the cocoons, the wonderful shining francs which the family had earned together, to be invested. Part of them were laid aside for living expenses; and part were spent in comforts for the loved ones who were in the fighting line.
As she now had more leisure Madame Bretton went each day to the village church to work with the other women at stripping and rolling bandages; and when at home her deft fingers were never idle but flew to and fro at her knitting. Marie, too, had learned to knit and although she complained that her needles refused to click as did her mother's, she nevertheless was already able to make a sock and fashion its toe and heel without help. As for Pierre, he split the wood, cared for the cow and the goats, toiled in the field, brought hay from the hillsides, and assumed much of the heavy work which his father and uncle had been accustomed to do. A new manliness had crept into his bearing, causing his mother to regard him with puzzled surprise, and not a little satisfaction.
"You are a great comfort to me, Pierre," she would exclaim a score of times a day.
Once the lad had flushed with pleasure at overhearing her say to Monsieur le Curé:
"What should I do without my good son, my brave Pierre, to lean upon?"
Thus nearly two months sped past, and the moths within the cocoons that had been laid aside for breeding began to hatch out and force themselves through the small apertures they rent in their silken houses.
Marie viewed the first arrivals in consternation.
"They will fly all about the house and we shall lose them!" she cried. "What can we do with them?"
But Pierre only laughed.
"Have no fear, little sister," he answered reassuringly. "Josef says they will but flutter far enough to find their mates, and when their eggs are laid they will die."
"Alas," sighed the girl, "what a wee time they have to enjoy the glory of their new wings! Is it not sad, Mother?"
Madame Bretton regarded the child gravely for a moment; then she shook her head and smiled into her little daughter's troubled eyes.
"It is not so sad as it seems," she answered gently. "The silkworm has completed its work, and there is no need for it to live longer. It is so with all of us. Each is put into the world with a task to finish, and there can be no greater happiness than to know that that work—whatever it was—has been faithfully accomplished. To me the lesson of these tiny creatures' lives is an inspiration."
Marie smiled faintly, but was still unconvinced.
"But to have it all end just when they have got their wings, Mother!"
"But it does not end, chérie," was the quiet reply. "The moths leave behind them their eggs, which hatch into another family of silkworms. The work goes on, don't you see; it does not stop."
The girl's face brightened.
"It is so with children," continued her mother. "They live after their parents are gone, and carry forward the family name and the good principles their fathers and mothers have left in their keeping. You and Pierre will, I hope, take out into the world all the good things your father and I have attempted to teach you. Try to live always so that the name you bear shall be honored. We have been poor French peasants but we have never done anything that could cause you shame. And now in addition to that knowledge you will have it ever to remember that your father was a soldier of France, and when trouble came to our beloved land he gladly offered his life to serve her."
A light of exaltation glowed in the woman's eyes.
Pierre, who had stolen unnoticed into the room, thought he had never seen his mother so beautiful. There was something in her face that brought to his mind the Jeanne d'Arc statue in the village square.
Softly he bent and kissed her cheek.
With the gesture Madame Bretton seemed to rouse herself, and her grave mood instantly shifted into playfulness.
"Dear, dear!" she cried. "How serious we all are getting! It was your moths, Pierre, that set me moralizing this way. Our work with them is not yet done, either, for we must spread out the sheets of paper on which they are to lay their eggs. Then we can move the pairs of moths onto them."
She rose briskly.
"But how can we, Mother?" queried Marie. "When we touch them they will surely fly away, won't they?"
"No, dear. After the moths have found their mates they can be moved very easily. I have often seen your father take them gently by the wings and put as many couples as he could on large sheets of white paper. There they remained, and after their eggs were laid we removed the moths and folding the papers of eggs put them away for next season's hatching. The eggs were fastened so firmly to the paper that there was no danger of losing any of them. Now where shall we spread the papers for our own moths? They must be put well out of the sun and the strong light and also where there is nothing to disturb the butterflies—no mice or insects for example—or they will not lay eggs for us. Suppose we spread our papers in Uncle Jacques' room. It is not in use now and it is on the shady side of the house."
Rising, she crossed the floor and threw open the door of a vacant bedroom.
Pierre noticed a shade of sadness flit across her face.
"Uncle Jacques would be glad to think we are using his room, Mother," said the boy quickly. "He has always been so interested in the silkworms. Perhaps by the time the mulberry trees leaf again we shall have peace, and he and Father will be once more at home helping us hatch out these very eggs. Who knows?"
"Who knows indeed, dear? Only the good God who is watching over their lives! It may be as you say. The spring may see them back again. We must do our part to be ready for their coming."
From a drawer she brought out some large flat sheets of white paper and spread them upon table, bureau, bed, and chairs. As the room was long there was plenty of space.
"Now see how careful you can be in bringing in the moths. Go on tiptoe and move gently."
Slowly the pairs of greenish white butterflies were transferred to the papers. Scarcely one did more than flutter feebly.
"How long will it take before the eggs are laid, Mother?" inquired Pierre.
"From twenty-four to thirty-six hours—usually not longer than that. Each female moth will lay three or four hundred eggs."
"Shall we have room for so many?"
"Oh, yes," nodded Madame Bretton. "You recall how small they are—only about the size of the head of a pin."
"In the meantime what are we going to give the moths to eat?" asked Marie.
"Nothing. They are not hungry like silkworms. After they leave the cocoon they eat no food, and they will live but a few days after their eggs are laid. We must then gather up the sheets of eggs as quickly as we can, for if they are left exposed to the light and air they will hatch at once and then where should we be?"
"The entire crop would be lost!" gasped Pierre.
"Yes. Your father had a friend to whom that misfortune happened. He was careless and left the newly laid eggs too long in the light, and when he came back from the hills where he had gone on a few days' journey to cut hay the tiny silkworms were hatched and he had nothing on which to feed them. At that season the young mulberry leaves had gone by and, in fact, the trees were nearly bare. It was a good lesson to him; but it was a sad one, for the next spring he had to buy silkworm eggs, and they cost him many francs."
"We will be more careful than that, won't we, Mother?" Marie said.
"I certainly hope so, for we can ill afford to waste our money."
And the Bretton family were more careful. Within a day or two the great sheets of eggs were folded and put away in a dry, dark place where they would be safe until the spring when, as the children insisted, Father and Uncle Jacques might be at home again to share in the hatching and direct the raising of the new crop of silkworms.
During the next few weeks many a letter passed between Pierre and his new friend Henri St. Amant; and by and by came an invitation for Pierre to come again to Pont-de-Saint-Michel and spend the day visiting the Gaspard throwing mills, where the raw silk was twisted and prepared for weaving. The boy was all eagerness to go and his mother, too, favored the trip, for Pierre had been working very steadily and now had few pleasures. It seemed impossible to complete the never-ending round of duties, although with uncomplaining zeal Pierre kept patiently at them. Marie, it is true, helped with some of the lighter work; but she was not strong enough to do much outside the house. As for Josef, faithful as he was, the old man was aging rapidly and could do little more than potter about the place and direct things. Therefore the cutting of trees for fuel, the drawing of water, the building of fires all fell to Pierre's lot.
What wonder that with such constant use the boy's strength was daily increasing until he was becoming a veritable young giant? With no small satisfaction he beheld the muscles of his arms tighten and stand out; and when he swung his axe and brought down a sturdy sapling it was with a glow of pleasure that he heard it crash to the ground. Certainly there were compensations in hard work! Moreover was not every French boy who was too young to serve in the army being a man at home? He was but doing what all his friends were. Nevertheless the thought of a holiday did fill him with anticipation. To get into something beside his workaday clothes, and to mingle for an entire day amid new scenes, to say nothing of seeing Henri St. Amant again—what a delight it would be!
Madame Bretton caught a reflection from his happiness and that nothing should be left undone that should enhance the joy of her son's outing she broke over her rules of strict frugality and packed a luncheon for him, to which she added a few of the little luxuries which for a long time the family had denied themselves.
And so in high spirits Pierre set forth for Pont-de-Saint-Michel. How familiar every step of the journey seemed this time! And how good it was to find Henri St. Amant awaiting him in the office of the Gaspard mills!
"I have been working over time all the last week, so they are letting me have this morning to show you about the throwing mills," he explained, his eyes shining into Pierre's still brighter ones. "And at noontime when we have finished our round of the factory we can go down by the river, and while we eat our luncheon we can talk together. Therefore suppose we do not waste precious moments in visiting now, for we shall scarcely have time to see all I want to show you before the noon whistle blows."
Accordingly Pierre's box of lunch was stowed away in Henri's locker, and speeding across the little bridge that connected the filature with the throwing mills, the two boys entered the great factories.
"Before we go another step there is one question I must ask you," said Pierre, stopping in the doorway. "I want you to tell me why the twisting of raw silk into thread is called throwing."
"I'll try to explain it as well as I can, Pierre," answered Henri. "Maybe you have stuck me on the very first question you've asked," he added smiling. "All I know is that the operation of twisting, or throwsting, the fibres of raw silk has come to be abbreviated into throwing. The workmen are known as silk throwsters. It is an old trade. At the beginning of the sixteenth century there were throwing mills at Bologna which were so good that it is from them our present day machinery has been copied and perfected. Usually the work is done on commission—the manager, or throwster, receiving orders from weaving mills for exactly the sort of thread they wish to use."
"Isn't it all alike?"
"No, indeed! It varies in size according to the number of threads in a strand, and the number of twists and turns to the inch. Some materials that are to be woven require heavy, loosely twisted thread; others, that which is fine and tightly twisted. And in addition to these differences some thread is not made from pure silk, or even from silk of the best quality; raw silk which is imperfect can just as well be used for certain purposes, or silk that is twisted with a strand of cotton or some other filling. There are a great many qualities and kinds of thread and each one has to be specified."
Pierre opened his eyes.
"Organzine, for example, is used for the warp of woven silk materials and is generally spun from the best quality raw silk, the threads being firm and strong. Tram, on the other hand, is silk of a second grade and is composed of a greater number of fibres. Many of the mills manufacturing woven silks prefer not to own throwing mills. Often their plants are in large cities where land is expensive and they must economize space; or the manufacturers estimate that they can get thread thrown for them cheaper than they can do it themselves. Anyway, they either send their own raw silk here to be thrown according to certain specifications, or they tell us to get the raw silk ourselves and throw it into the varieties required. If the firm sends its own silk it comes to the throwster in bulk with an order to throw a certain proportion of it into organzine of so many threads and twists; and the rest into tram of specified size, the price being computed by the pound."
"I understand."
"The throwsting of silk is a great test of the reeling. If the reeling has been well done, and the size of the strand is uniform, we have no trouble; but if the reeling has been poor, and the gum not thoroughly soaked out of the filament, the threads will snarl and break when they are put on the machines. Frequently there is great loss from poorly reeled cocoons, as I think I told you. And you must keep in mind that the cocoon gives us two kinds of silk thread—the reeled silk, which is of the best quality and is the continuous filament wound from the cocoon requiring no textile machinery to prepare its fibres; and the spun silk, which is made from the loose floss taken off before the cocoon is reeled, or comes from cocoons that were too imperfect to be wound off by the reelers. The latter variety must be treated much as are the fibres from the cotton plant, or those of sheep's wool. By that I mean that the short lengths have to be twisted and spun together before they can be woven on a loom. Do you see the difference?"
Pierre nodded.
"Reeled silk comes direct from the cocoon, leaving the filatures on spools, as you saw when you were here before. After that it is brought to these mills and wound over into hanks or skeins of a specified length—usually from 333 to 500 yards. The foreman told me that long ago they had to employ one person to attend to every reel; but now with modern machinery a single girl can watch twenty-four spools at once. One of the interesting things is that all the finest reels used in France, Italy, China, and Japan, come from America."
"But why don't the Americans reel their own raw silk, then, instead of importing it?"
"They have no cocoons. My father says they tried raising silk in America, but it was not successful. Mulberry trees will grow in some parts of the country, but there is no cheap labor to be had over there as here, and therefore it costs too much to feed and care for the silkworms, and reel the raw silk. It is far less expensive for American merchants to import the reeled silk for their looms. But they can beat us at making machinery, if not at raising cocoons."
Henri chuckled.
"My father says," he went on, "that the Americans did not perfect the reeling machines so much for our good as for their own. They used to get all kinds of silk thread from the different parts of Europe; and it could not be woven on their looms, which are finely adjusted and require material of uniform size and strength. So they perfected machinery for the preparation of silk thread, and practically insisted that if they were to buy of us in Europe the material ordered must be made as they wanted it. Most of the countries over here were glad enough to comply with their demands, for the Americans are not only enormous buyers, but their machines are much better than ours."
"Why couldn't they have cocoons shipped to them in bulk?" speculated Pierre.
"They could not be easily packed, for they are not in form to ship. It would be foolish. Besides, there is the same old problem of the lack of cheap labor. You see, reeling silk is often slow work. Different breeds of silkworm turn out, as you know, different qualities of thread. You wouldn't believe how it varies as to size, cleanliness, lustre, and perfection of filament. The Americans cannot afford to pay people to classify all these varieties; nor stop their machinery at irregular intervals to pick out the imperfections, or slugs, as we call them; also the many knots must be tied by hand. It is fussy work. It would cost an American manufacturer lots of money to get the sort of thread he wants. You remember, too, how some of the best reelers that you saw when you were here before sometimes had to take as many as five or more filaments from different cocoons to get raw silk of a necessary coarseness; even then, in spite of all their care, the skeins have to be sorted and sometimes re-reeled to perfect the thread and make it acceptable to American buyers. Our weavers over here would not begin to be so particular; and in fact they often rate as fair stuff that the Americans consider poor, and refuse to take. You can readily see that all this preparation of the material can be done for less price in Europe, where workmen do not expect such high wages."
"What a lot of trouble the caterpillar makes people before his silk is ready for the loom!" exclaimed Pierre laughing.
"I guess you'll think so when you see all we have to do to it," agreed Henri. "I hope you won't mind the smell of the factory. It is horribly stifling, and makes some of the men sick at first. It is the oil and water in the silk. Silk must be damp for winding and spinning, otherwise it breaks. It is never, even at best, thoroughly dry, for it has the faculty of absorbing and holding moisture. Some time you'll learn more about how they have to allow for the moisture in silk when they weigh and ship it. Raw silk will often take up as much as thirty per cent. of its weight in moisture without any one suspecting it. Therefore, in order to be fair to the buyer who purchases his material by weight, they have in all great silk centres what they call silk-conditioning houses, where they test the goods to find out how much water is in it. This is done by an apparatus known as a desiccator, which tells what the silk would weigh if dry. To this estimate they add a definite percentage, ordinarily about eleven per cent., to total what the raw silk would weigh with a normal percentage of moisture. Every purchaser must expect to pay for some moisture in his material—that is, pay more for it than the silk itself actually weighs."
Pierre regarded Henri mischievously.
"There seems to be so much to learn that I do not believe I shall get through this mill to-day. Maybe I'll have to spend the night here."
"I wish you could!" cried Henri. "Why didn't you plan to come home with me and stay until to-morrow?"
"I couldn't be away over night, Henri," answered Pierre, "although it is kind of you to ask me; there is so much that I have to do at home."
"Let us make haste then," Henri cried. "You have not seen anything yet, and the morning is passing."
"There are about a dozen different processes which taken together are known as throwing," explained Henri. "First the silk reeled from the cocoons must be wound; then cleaned of all gum; picked—which means that the uneven lumps must be removed; doubled, to make the thread stronger; twisted, to make it still firmer; rewound; and finally reeled all over again into silken yarn. Then it is ready to be put into any form desired, in accordance with orders received from the weaving companies. Sometimes it is made into what we call singles, one thread being given a twist to make it stronger. Sometimes, as I told you, it is made into tram, two or three threads being twisted lightly together just enough to hold them; tram, as I said, is used for the filling or woof of woven materials. Or perhaps organzine, which forms the warp threads of woven goods and is composed of two or as many more singles as desired, is ordered. Organzine can, of course, be made in any size specified, its coarseness or fineness varying with the strength necessary; and it can also be twisted any number of times to make it loose or tight. It must, however, be twisted in the opposite direction from the twist given it when the thread is made into singles or else that twist would come out and do no good. And just here is an amusing point and one that nettles the American buyers not a little. The moment raw silk is twisted even once, transforming it into singles, the custom-house officials on the other side of the water cease to regard it as a raw product although nothing in the way of actual manufacture has taken place in its preparation. The difference in its rating makes a difference in the duty levied on it. Odd, isn't it?"
"How do you come to know all these things, Henri?" demanded Pierre. "You seem to have studied everything there is to learn about silk."
"Indeed I haven't! But when you hear silk-making talked on every hand you can't help picking up more or less information about it. Let me be set down in a weaving mill, though, and I should be ignorant as a baby. The problems of weaving are not in my line. Here in Pont-de-Saint-Michel almost every one is employed in the Gaspard filature, or in the throwing mills; and if not, the people raise silkworms. Since the men have been called to the colors practically all the work of this big manufacturing plant is being done by women, boys, and children. The few men we have who are operating the heavier machines have either been sent home from the front because they were wounded or else they are not strong enough to fight. So you see, silk is the language of the whole village."
Henri gave a little shrug to his shoulders.
"It seems as if France must turn out enough silk for herself and all the world," observed Pierre, motioning to the great bales heaped in a near-by shipping-room.
"The output is, of course, very small now in comparison with what it usually is," answered the elder boy. "The war has made a great difference. Normally France does provide a good share of the world's silk. But other countries do as much, if not more. For a long time Asia sent most of the silk to the United States. Labor was very cheap in China, as well as Canton and Shanghai. The natives, however, employed very primitive methods in preparing their material and did it very poorly, often winding the raw silk on bamboo sticks that roughened or broke it. Frequently the thread would be a mass of dirt and slugs. Merchants would not stand for this, and now American manufacturers have gone to China and set up their own filatures equipped with American machinery."
"How stupid of China to lose a chance like that for trade!"
"The Chinese are the slowest of all the big nations to adopt new ideas, my father says; but they are waking up. They have been so clever in the past, and the foremost to discover so many things that it is a pity others should take from them the fruits of their learning. It is to China, people say, that we owe the entire silk industry. And careless preparation of their raw silk has not been their only or greatest crime."
For a moment Henri paused.
"No. About 1870 the Chinese silk dealers got it through their heads that what the American manufacturers demanded was a heavy silk thread. Now instead of selecting more carefully the cocoons from which they wound their raw silk and reeling it more perfectly, they set their ingenuity to work to increase the weight of the fibre itself by loading it with acetate of lead."
"I should think the Americans would have been pretty angry at that!"
"They were. They told the Chamber of Commerce at Shanghai that the United States would refuse to buy silk of China unless this practice was stopped. That scared the people, and for a while the adulteration of the material ceased. But the reform was not for long. From time to time the natives went back to their old tricks until by and by not only America, but even the greater part of Europe, got all out of patience with them. When they finally remedied the evil it was too late. Other countries had learned the art of silk-raising and had stepped in and snapped up most of the trade. My father says that now America, which is the largest silk consumer of the world, buys only about a quarter of her raw silk from China."
"So the evil-doer does not always prosper," laughed Pierre.
"Evidently not. In contrast to China's actions see what Japan did. That nation was enterprising enough to cultivate silk and foster its reeling; and when America sent the Japs machinery they set it up and soon had tremendous filatures run by their own people. There were thousands of factories where whole Japanese families were employed in reeling silk from the cocoons. The Japanese raw silk, however, was not always free from gum, and in time there was so much complaint about this from America that conditioning houses were established at Yokohama where the goods of each Jap merchant were examined and his personal trade-mark attached to his wares so if they did not come up to the standard they could be traced back to the owner who shipped them. Now more and more Japanese silk is sold, and in the main it is good, although America sometimes complains that it drops below the standard. Certainly no one can begrudge Japan her prosperity, since she had the wit to grasp her opportunity for commerce."
"Surely not."
"I think the trading of different nations one with another is all very interesting, anyway," went on Henri. "Why, we are like one big family—or ought to be! My father has no patience with war. He thinks we should try and overlook the other's faults as we do at home, and live together in peace. We all need each other, and the products peculiar to each land. No one of us can get on without the rest, for as yet no one country has been able to turn out everything its people require. It takes every climate and every national characteristic to bring together the produce of the globe. Besides, trade brings the different races closer together. One of the greatest pities of this war is its interference with commerce through which avenue we were all building up bonds of universal friendship and sympathy. It stands to reason that we understand the people of China or America better if we have dealings with them and meet them sometimes, than if we always stay here in France and read about them, doesn't it? And surely trade brings about greater prosperity everywhere."
"It was to bring back to France that prosperity and peace that your family and mine went to the war," murmured Pierre gently.
"Yes. And if this can be accomplished, and this frightful war be the last war of the world it will be worth all that we have sacrificed," returned the older boy fervently. "But peace is a long time in coming."
"And prosperity will be still longer, I fear," added Pierre soberly.
There was an instant of tense silence.
Both boys were thinking.
"Speaking of commerce," resumed Henri, breaking in upon the serious tenor of the moment and speaking in his former tone, "you doubtless know that before the opening of the Suez Canal London was the great raw silk centre of the world; now our own Marseilles leads, or did before this fighting began. And we must not leave out Italy when talking of silk-growing nations, for our neighbors, the Italians, have done as much if not more silk exporting as has France. You see their climate is ideal for raising silkworms; and when they are not beset by a plague that destroys their crops, as it did between 1864 and 1878, the industry prospers wonderfully with them. The thread from the Italian cocoons seems to be naturally stronger than ours, and some of the best quality raw silk in the world comes from small Italian villages. Then, too, of course Italian labor is cheap. While in France we pay unskilled reeling operatives from twenty to twenty-five cents a day Italian workmen doing the same thing get only fifteen or twenty cents. There is not so much American machinery used in Italy as here, however, and therefore some merchants in the United States prefer French to Italian thread. But generally speaking the very finest and highest priced silks made in America are manufactured from French or Italian material. For many purposes where less perfect thread is required the Americans use silk from the East. It is cheaper, and manufacturers cannot afford the more costly Italian and French thread for everything they make. Importing the material in bulk, even compactly as it is shipped, is enormously expensive. For you see there is always the chance of loss in the silk business."
"Why?"
"Because although silk is necessary in the manufacture of certain indispensable articles it is for the most part a luxury, and the demand for it fluctuates. When times are hard people go without silk gowns and silk stockings; nor do they expend their money in silk, satin, brocade, or velvet hangings. The fashion, too, has much to do with the demand. Some seasons women wear only satins and that throws back on the manufacturers the silks they have on hand; or velvets are worn and the satins have to be shelved. The vogue of certain colors also often causes loss. It is a great lottery to be a silk merchant, my father says."
"Certainly the silkworm creates lots of business for people," declared Pierre smiling.
"And the thread for weaving sarsnet—or sateen, taffeta, satin, and velvet, as well as providing the fibres for sewing-silk is not all the little caterpillar gives, either. Had you thought of the oiled silk, used for a thousand and one purposes? Or of the silk-gut we use near the hooks of our fish-lines?"
"I fish with just a string," replied Pierre.
Henri chuckled.
"You are not an expert fisherman then, Pierre," he answered. "Still, one can land a very good fish with a pole and string; I have done it scores of times. But professional fishermen have a bit of silk-gut to connect the hook with the line. Not only is it very strong, but it is invisible when under water. Most of the silk-gut is made in Italy or Spain, the Spaniards surpassing all others at manufacturing it. Valencia is the chief centre for the industry."
"And how is it made? Spun from silk fibres?"
"Not at all. You remember how, before the silkworm begins to spin, the viscid secretion is stored in the two long ducts at each side of the little creature's body. It is that material which it unites into a single thread in the spinaret, you know. Well, before the worm has a chance to spin, it is put into vinegar and this jellied silk is extracted. It is first soaked in cold water and afterward in a caustic solution so that its outer covering can be loosened and taken off. Then the yellowish gum is dried in a shady place and bleached white by means of sulphur fumes. You can see that it is expensive because so many silkworms must be sacrificed, and because the thread produced is so small. Why, I have read that it takes as many as twenty or thirty thousand strings to make a pound."
"No wonder I don't use silk-gut on my fish-line!" he exclaimed.
In the meantime the boys were passing on amid the stifling atmosphere and whirling machines.
Suddenly the noon whistle blew and the busy wheels of the mill became still.
Pierre and Henri were only too glad to emerge with the others from the close, steamy air of the factory into the coolness of the outdoor world. Down by the river's bank they unpacked their luncheon, a royal feast, for Madame Bretton had sent enough food for both hungry boys. They were in jubilant spirits.
"If I had a line with some silk-gut on it I might perhaps land a trout," said Pierre mischievously.
Henri shook his head.
"There are no fish in this stream, because the waste from the mill flows into it. But some day in the spring, when I have a holiday, I can show you a brook up in the hills where you can catch as many trout as you like—silk-gut or no silk-gut," he said.
"There are fishing-holes at Bellerivre, too," retorted Pierre proudly. "Why should you not make the next visit? You could then see my mother and my sister Marie; and I could show you our silk-house."
The sounding of the whistle cut short further conversation and warned the boys that their day together was at an end. Henri had to go back to the mill and resume work at his machine from which the kindly foreman had released him in the morning; and Pierre must take his train home.
But what a perfect day it had been!
As the engine hurried him toward Bellerivre Pierre busied himself thinking how much he would have to tell his mother and Marie. The village was reached almost before he realized it, and as he descended from the train he was surprised to find Monsieur le Curé standing on the platform to greet him.
The face of the priest was pale, and with apprehension Pierre made his way toward him.
"My son!" was all the old man could say.
Instantly Pierre knew.
"You have bad news, Father," he cried quickly. "It is from the war. Tell me! Do not fear. I am no longer a child."
Trembling, the kindly friend put a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"It came this morning—the message," he said. "I did not tell your mother, but waited for you. There has been another great battle and——"
"My father?"
"He is missing, Pierre."
"And Uncle Jacques?"
"He will come no more, my son. He has given his life for France."
Silently Pierre received the news. He neither trembled nor cried out. In a vague way he realized that ever since that day long ago when Henri St. Amant had first presented this possibility to his mind he had unconsciously been bracing himself to meet with courage some such emergency. And now the blow had fallen, and it was he who must break the news to his mother, and be the strong prop on which she might lean. So busy was he with these thoughts that he scarcely sensed the presence of the faithful old priest who walked beside him. A score of confused reveries were surging over the boy, and out of the chaos of grief, reminiscence, and wonder, clearer ideas began to form themselves.
"We must sell the place," he declared, thinking aloud. "That will give us some ready money to start on."
"I, too, think that might be well."
It was the quiet voice of Monsieur le Curé.
"Forgive me, Father," said the lad. "I had forgotten——"
"Do not reproach yourself, my son," replied the priest gently. "I did not accompany you to be a burden in your sorrow—only that I might help if I could."
He laid his hand on the boy's shoulder.
Pierre glanced into his eyes gratefully.
"About the selling of the home—you think it would be wise?" he asked.
"It seems to me now to be the best plan; but I should wish to consider the matter more carefully before I gave a final decision. Advice must not be given too hastily."
"You see," continued Pierre, still formulating his ideas, "the constant care of a large crop of silkworms is too hard for my mother and Marie. We have been able to manage it one season, and we might even do it two; but to feel we must work as hard as that forever—it is not to be thought of. If we are to take up sericulture permanently we must have more help, and with the comparatively small margin of profit we are able to make we are not in a position to do that. When my father and uncle were at home it was a very different thing. Of course I have Josef, but he can do only the lightest part of the work. I am glad to do my share, more than my share; but I am only a boy, Father, and not so wise nor so strong as my father was. Nor have I his knowledge. If our crop of cocoons should fail some season either through my lack of skill or because of some unavoidable calamity, we should be without money on which to live. It would be terrible. The thought fills me with fear. Help me, Father. You are older than I. Give me your counsel. Do you think I am right, or only a coward?"
"To face the truth is never cowardly, Pierre," answered the priest. "You reason well, my son. To take upon yourself in future the care you have borne this year is far too much for a lad. It is a work for several able-bodied men. That you and your mother and Marie have been able to do it even this once is little short of a miracle. Of course you have each thrown your entire heart and strength into it. Then, too, the season has been ideal. No calamities have befallen your crop. Nevertheless misfortunes do come. There are distempers that ravage the silkworms; bad weather that wrecks the mulberry foliage; a thousand possible accidents which at any moment may sweep away your income. Such a reverse would be a dire catastrophe to you and your family." The curé paused thoughtfully. "But if you were to sell the place," he went on a second later, "what would you do? Surely the sum you would receive for it, even if it was a generous one—a thing we can hardly expect in war time—would not be sufficient for you all to live upon."
"I should not try to live here," answered Pierre promptly. "Long ago I made up my mind that if anything befell my father and my uncle I would persuade my mother and Marie to go with me to America."
"America!"
"It is not so far away."
"It is at the other side of the world!" asserted the simple priest.
Pierre laughed.
"No, indeed, Father. America is but a ship's journey away. Besides we have relatives there. My mother's people are all at Paterson, New Jersey. My plan would be to take part of the money we get for our home and with it pay our passage to America. There I could find work at good wages, and take care of my mother and sister."
Monsieur nodded silently.
"All this," continued Pierre, "is in case my father is not found. You tell me he is missing. What does that mean, Father?"
"It may mean any one of several things," returned the curé. "Your father may have been wounded and carried to some enemy's hospital; he may be a prisoner in some war camp; or——"
The old man faltered.
"Or——" persisted Pierre. "Speak, Father. Do not be afraid."
"Or he may have fallen, and be lying unclaimed on some distant battle-field."
"And what do you think is the chance of his being heard from?"
Unflinchingly the boy put the question.
"We cannot tell. He is in God's hands. I should wait for a time, my son. Then if no message comes we must——"
Again the kindly voice wavered.
"We shall know he has been lost," put in Pierre in a whisper.
"I fear so."
Stillness fell between the two. Each was thinking.
"Then for the present I will not speak yet to my mother of selling the home," said Pierre at last. "We will wait and hope for good news. It is cruel to distress her unless we must. All may yet be well. Surely she has grief enough as it is, for she was very fond of my uncle."
"You are a wise lad, Pierre," exclaimed the curé. "Do as you have said. Console your mother with the hope of good tidings from the front. They may come—who knows? And if not, her sorrows will at least come singly and not all at once."
And thus it came about that through the great grief that overwhelmed the Bretton home it was Pierre who was his mother's stay and comfort. He it was who counseled hope and patience; he who took up the burden of acting both as father and son.
But despite his courage the message so eagerly longed for did not come. Days, weeks, months dragged on. The winter passed and faint hints of spring began to steal into the landscape. The river, foaming with the melted snows from far up the Pyrenees, dashed with deafening roar through the mountain gorges. There was a new brilliancy in the noonday sunshine.
To Pierre the worst had now become a certainty. His father would never again be heard from. Somewhere in a camp or battle-field far from home like a true son of France he had given up his life for his beloved country. With sinking heart the boy faced this reality. He had not sensed until now how subtly a secret anticipation that the facts might prove otherwise had buoyed him up. But now hope was gone. How should he tell his mother? How break in upon the dream she was cherishing, and rudely force upon her the need for action?
How would she receive the plan for selling the home? To leave the spot she loved so much would be an overpowering blow to her, for had she not come as a bride to her present dwelling? Nay, more; she had been born in Bellerivre and had never ventured beyond its confines. What would she say to breaking every tie of her old life and setting forth from the valley she loved to end her days in a strange and unknown country? For Marie and himself it was well enough; they were young and their days stretched far before them. But for his mother it would mean only the severing of every familiar association.
Poor Pierre! Many an anxious hour did he spend wondering how he was to present his plan so that it would not seem cruel.
Then one day he suddenly saw how useless had been his worry. It was his mother herself who spoke and made the very suggestion he had been hesitating to voice. How calmly and with what courage she did it! Ah, Pierre need not have feared that she would fail to meet the great issue when it came! Madame Bretton was too much of a woman for that. Instead she had a long talk with her children and afterward a letter was dispatched to the relatives in that mystic land, America. Soon a reply came back. Madame Bretton had come of fine peasant stock, and her brother had carried with him into the new land of which he had become a citizen his native loyalty and bigness of heart. He now wrote urging his sister and her fatherless children to come to Paterson and share his home until such time as they could find work and settle themselves in some convenient community.
And when this was agreed upon who should come forward to Pierre's aid but Henri St. Amant! He it was who found at Pont-de-Saint-Michel a customer ready to purchase for a good price the Bretton homestead, with its well-equipped silk-house, and its grove of thriving mulberry trees. Together with Pierre and the curé he worked out every detail of the Brettons' departure, acting with a wisdom that was amazing in so young a lad. The faithful Josef was to have a home with the old priest; nothing was forgotten. Certainly Henri was a friend in need!
Therefore one sunny morning the Brettons started south across France for the seaport from which, a week later, they were to set sail for that untried world toward which many another hapless exile had journeyed, and within whose borders the refuge of a home was offered.