Then Victor came up. “I have been looking for you two,” he said, seating himself on the bench by Annette’s side and tossing a spray of blossoms into Lucie’s lap. “The first of the season,” he announced. “How do you like Coin-du-Pres, Lucie?”
“I think it is lovely. I like this rambling old house and the garden. The garden is nothing as yet, I suppose.”
“In another month you will begin to see its glory. Paulette and Odette, they are content?”
“Paulette doesn’t say much; you know her way, but she remarked to me that at last one could have a place to put things. She has been pottering around the little house, giving Odette all sorts of directions, and planning where they shall put this and what they will have to eat when the time comes, so I really think she is very happy. As for Odette, she is so pleased to be in the country again that nothing else counts. She has been so ordered about and scolded by that old aunt of hers that I suppose Paulette seems like a very angel of disposition, though I should scarcely call her so. It was good of your grandmother to let them have the little house; it will mean home to them.”
“That was Victor’s doing,” Annette spoke up. “He suggested it, and had Jules get it in order; that was one of the things he was particular to write about.”
As if he had not heard, Victor began whistling a gay little tune. Then he remarked: “Four more days and my leave will be up. The next time I shall come here to spend all of my permission; it should be in August, eight days every four months for the men in the trenches.” Alas, who could tell what might happen before then? Certainly if Victor had any misgivings he would not have said so. “To-morrow,” he added, “we must show Lucie all over the farm. Come, let us go in. It is getting damp.”
They went in to where, in the lamp-lighted room, the older people were gathered; Mons. Le Brun poring over the newspapers Victor had brought, Madame his wife knitting, her delicate, little old face outlined against the crimson back of a big chair, and her small nervous hands busy with her work. Madame Guerin sat where she could gather up the papers as her brother-in-law had finished with them. A big, sleepy cat was curled up in her lap—she did not care for dogs—and her bright eyes scanned the columns with sharp eagerness. She was neither so small nor so frail-looking as her sister, and appeared a person of decision and energy.
Annette and Lucie seated themselves upon a sofa. Victor sauntered over to the bookcase, and began examining the volumes.
“Have you nothing to do, Annette?” Madame Guerin inquired presently.
“No, tante, I don’t seem to have,” replied Annette.