For a second her listener looked puzzled, for Lucy’s French was much worse than her German. Then her face lighted comprehendingly, and a bright smile chased away all the scornful sadness from her look.
“I shall be glad!” she exclaimed, her pretty voice sounding pleasantly on Lucy’s ears after the shouts of the German soldiers calling off the names upon their lists. Then, hesitating for a second, the girl said in careful, foreign-sounding English, “If you prefer, we can talk in English. I speak enough that you can understand me, though I make some mistakes at every moment.”
“Oh, yes,” cried Lucy, enormously relieved at the loosening of her tongue. “I can understand you perfectly, and you tell me if I talk too fast.”
“Then let us sit on the floor,” the French girl suggested, dropping down as she spoke against the wall.
Lucy quickly followed suit, and when they were seated side by side on the rickety floor, which shook and creaked under many footsteps, her companion continued, “I know a little of you already. Clemence, our servant, has told me how you came here to see your father.” A look of such keen sympathy shone in the blue eyes fixed on hers that Lucy for a moment could not speak, and the French girl added, “You are American, no? Tell me your name.”
“Lucy Gordon. And I know part of yours. You are Mademoiselle de la Tour, but what is your first name?”
“Michelle. It was the poilu who was with you when you saw me in the street who has told you that. He knows well this town. He was—how you call it? Jardinier of my uncle, very near here, before the war.”
Brêlet had in fact told Lucy more of Michelle de la Tour than her name. He had described the first German advance early in the war, which had driven the widow and her little daughter from their beautiful country-place to find refuge in the town. Since then things had gone from bad to worse with this family, once so honored and fortunate. Madame de la Tour’s only son was fighting for his country, while his mother and sister were left, poor and needy, in German hands.
Lucy wondered what stories of privation and sacrifice Michelle’s lips could tell. But she also guessed that she would hear little of them. Impelled by an instinctive confidence and liking which made her feel more warmly toward this girl than five minutes’ acquaintance warranted, she began telling her a little of her own history. Of her coming from England, of her father’s recovery in the midst of the German advance, of her mother’s vain attempts to reach them, and lastly she spoke of Bob. Not, of course, of his visit since the town’s capture, for Lucy had learned prudence enough in the last week. She did not say a word that could have brought danger to any friend of the Allies, however unlikely it was that her English would be understood. Michelle heard her with an eager intentness, and Lucy’s friendly interest seemed reflected in her listener’s eyes, which in their changing brightness expressed her thoughts far better than her halting English. At last she turned to where her mother sat, and reached out an eager hand to her.
“Maman! I have a friend—a little Americaine. Mees, here is my mother.”