Michel sped away, and returned in a twinkling with the flag. He followed her into the house and watched while she spread the colors of France over the little dog.
“It is the last thing I can do, and I think Victor would like it,” she told the doctor. “If he dies will you please let him be buried with it?”
The doctor nodded and turned away biting his lip. He was used to pathetic scenes but this was out of the ordinary. Paulette brought a basket and they lifted Pom Pom and his bed into it. Jean carried it out to the doctor’s gig. As the doctor drove off Jean stood at salute and Michel, not to be outdone, followed his example. The daylight was fading. The rosy flush of apple blossoms became brighter because of the rose of sunset sky. As the doctor drove out of sight Lucie gave a quick sob and buried her face on Paulette’s shoulder. “Is there never to be anything but unhappiness in the world?” she sobbed.
Paulette drew her gently into the house, motioning to the others to keep away.
Michel turned to Odette. “I think it was fine to cover him with the flag,” he said. “He is as great a hero as any.”
“It was also a beautiful thought of Mademoiselle Lucie’s,” said Jean. “I shall tell the copains.”
Odette nodded. She could not trust herself to speak. Michel slipped away to his home, and the brooding, sweet-scented May night settled down upon the quiet farm.
In the house they were talking in subdued tones. Madame Guerin was making her plans for leaving with Jean. She sat by the table, when Lucie came in, looking very pale and worn. She had shed her tears, and now there was only a dull ache in her heart.
Madame looked up as she entered. “You are utterly worn out, you poor little one. She must have some orange-flower water, Paulette. I think you did not hear about the little book, Lucie, that little book which Victor asked for the last time he was here. Jean has brought it to me. It is very precious, for it saved Victor’s life. See where the hole is.”
Lucie took the little blood-stained book. It had a stout leather binding, now torn and defaced. It brought the horror of battlefields very near. She laid down the book with a shiver, then went over to the sofa. It could not be that Victor, always so gay and joyous, should be perhaps dying. How well she remembered his reading from that same war-torn volume: “Shall not the fact that God is our Maker, and Father, and Guardian free us from griefs and terrors?” No, she would not believe that he would not get well. She had never believed that she would not see her mother again and she would have the utmost faith that, too, she would see Victor and Pom Pom.