Henriette’s father was a one-armed man. He had lost his left arm at the Marne, and had been honorably discharged, to go back to farming, in order to try to raise food for the army and for the suffering people of France. His two sons and his brothers were still away at the wars, so every child big enough to help, and the women of the family as well, aided in the farm work.
No petrol could be used to drive cars for pleasure; but Henriette sometimes had to go for supplies, or to carry things to market, or do other errands connected with the farm work. Ruth hoped that the French girl would be allowed to help her.
The hospitable Dupays insisted upon the American girl’s sitting down to table with them. She was given a seat on the bench between Henriette and Jean, a lad of four, who looked shyly up at the visitor from under heavy brown lashes, and only played with his food.
It was not the usual French breakfast to which Ruth Fielding had become accustomed—coffee and bread, with possibly a little compote, or an egg. There was meat on the table—a heavy meal, for it was to be followed by long hours of heavy labor.
“What brings you out so early after this awful night?” Henriette whispered to her visitor.
Ruth told her. She could eat but little, she was so anxious about Tom Cameron. She made it plain to the interested French girl just why she so desired to follow on to Lyse and learn if it really was Tom who had been wounded, as the message on the blood-stained envelope said.
“I might start along the road and trust to some ambulance overtaking me,” Ruth explained. “But often there is a wounded man who can sit up riding on the seat with the driver—sometimes two. I could not take the place of such an unfortunate.”
“It would be much too far for you to walk, Mademoiselle,” said the mother, overhearing. “We can surely help you.”
She spoke to her husband—a huge man, of whom Ruth stood rather in awe, he was so stern-looking and taciturn. But Henriette said he had been a “laughing man” before his experience in the war. War had changed many people, this French girl said, nodding her head wisely.
“The venerable Countess Marchand,” pointing to the chateau on the hill, “had been neighborly and kind until the war came. Now she shut herself away from all the neighbors, and if a body went to the chateau it was only to be confronted by old Bessie, who was the countess’ housekeeper, and her only personal servant now.”