“At once. There is no time to lose. You must be brave, little one, and cheer mamma. You are a daughter of France, remember, and her women do not quail before danger. You will remember that and be brave always, always, no matter what comes?” He took her face between his hands and kissed her on each cheek.
Lucie winked back the tears and, though her voice quavered, she answered: “I will be brave, always, always, papa. I will remember.”
“That is my dear daughter. Try to help all you can. There will be much to be done and you must do your part.”
Lucie looked across the room. “But grandfather is not going,” she said.
He lifted his head with a sudden, proud gesture. “Not yet, my pigeon, but if I am called I shall answer in spite of that old wound the Prussians gave me nearly fifty years ago.”
“And Jean, does Paulette’s Jean go?” Lucie continued her questions.
“Oh, yes, Jean must go,” her father told her. “He has enlisted already in my company.”
“Poor Paulette!” Lucie looked grave. She realized that it was indeed no time to make merry.
And in the days which followed she realized this still more. Her mother went about with a faraway look in her eyes. Paulette was grimmer and more silent. Grandfather Du Bois talked much with his neighbor, Mons. Le Brun, of that other war in which both had taken part. Lucie caught such sentences as: “They shall not pass. Never again shall it be, never, never,” spoken fiercely. Then there would be long silences as the two old men sat under the trees in the peaceful garden.
It was with contradictory emotions that the little girl saw her father march away with Jean, Pierre, Louis and François, youths of the town whom she had always known. They were all singing the Marseillaise. Lucie was thrilled as she heard them. Her grandfather and Mons. Le Brun stood stiffly saluting the flag as it passed. Madame Du Bois made a sweeping curtsy. Paulette followed her example, and, in her turn so did Lucie. Her heart beat high as she saw her father in his captain’s uniform leading his men. There were many others on the street waving handkerchiefs and crying “Au revoir.” Old men and boys were shouting “Vive la France!” or “Brave garçons!” As the rat-a-tat of the drums and the singing died away, and the floating flag became a mere speck, Lucie felt that she could not keep back her tears. She glanced at her mother, on whose face was a strange, exalted look. Lucie grasped her mother’s hand. It was as cold as ice, but she held Lucie’s tightly and smiled down at her. A few of the women were weeping though they continued to cheer mechanically as the tears coursed down their cheeks. Madame Du Bois’s eyes were tearless, and Lucie, who felt the moisture must overflow in her own eyes, choked back the lump in her throat and smiled into the face above her.