“I am sorry, madame,” began Jean in his slow way, “but I am the bearer of ill news.” He stopped and looked helplessly at his mother.
“Who are you and whose dog is that?” asked madame sharply.
“It is my son Jean,” said Paulette gravely. “The dog is Monsieur Victor’s, and Jean has brought him to us whom he knows and loves.”
Madame clenched her hands till they showed the strain. “Victor?” she whispered. “He is not—not—killed?” Her voice rose shrilly.
Lucie, too, made a sudden movement, causing Pom Pom to utter a faint moan. She gently touched his head and sat very still.
“He is not killed, no, madame, but he is very seriously wounded,” Jean replied.
Madame recovered her poise. “Sit down, if you please, and tell me all. You look tired. Paulette, have you seen that he has food and drink?” She drew up a chair and motioned Jean to a seat. “If you are not too tired will you please tell me,” she went on.
“It was at Arras,” Jean began, “the battle there, you understand. Monsieur was wounded. Night came. No one knew that he lay there. There were so many, you see, and these others were plainly alive. The little dog knew, oh, yes, he knew that Monsieur Victor was not dead, and he went out to find him. It was night. No one saw him go. He returned. Oh, yes, he returned wounded. The little dog, you understand, was wounded. It was as he was coming back to tell us. He managed to arrive. Figure to yourself, madame, the courage. It was Monsieur Honoré, his friend, that he made understand. We went out. We searched, and we found him there so sorely wounded, that he could not move. Monsieur Victor it was, and we brought him back. He is at a hospital.”
“Yes, yes,” whispered madame. “Will he—do they think he will live?”
Jean shook his head doubtfully. “One cannot tell. He was far spent when I saw him.”