Paulette rose to her feet, wiped her eyes and grasped Odette by the wrist. “Why, why, do you say that?” she asked in a tense voice.
“That one is missing does not mean that one is dead,” replied Odette. “He may be a prisoner.”
“Better he were dead,” mourned Paulette, covering her head with her apron.
“And,” Odette went on, “there is a possibility that he is neither. He may have lost himself from his companions, and be wandering in the woods trying to find his way back. For me I shall not believe anything very bad has happened till we know the truth.” And she began again raking the hay.
Paulette stood still, pondering on Odette’s words. “That is well said,” she spoke at last. “There is enough disaster of which one has the proof, why should one be desolated until that proof comes?” Then she too turned back to her work and all the rest followed her example. In the week that followed Paulette was perfectly calm and confident. If there were moments when her heart misgave her, no one knew it but Odette, to whom she would turn a troubled face to receive in response a reassuring smile which, some way or another, was all that was required to restore Paulette’s equanimity.
Even Lucie had come to put confidence in Odette’s “something tells me.” Had she not maintained that if Pom Pom recovered it would be a sign that Victor, likewise, would do so? There was something almost uncanny in Odette’s attitudes of mind. Probably it was nothing more than she cultivated a cheerful optimism, and, having suffered so much, made a practice of pushing away all unnecessary and gloomy forebodings simply because she had come to a place where she could endure no more. She had always assured Lucie that she was positive her mother would return, and upon this Lucie pinned her faith, discouraged and disheartened as she was when months passed without any word.
It was about two weeks after Jules brought the report that Jean was missing that Odette’s proof came in a very material and satisfactory form, for who should walk in one evening but Jean himself. Paulette who had been so brave under ill news was now completely overcome. She threw herself into Jean’s arms and wept on his shoulder as if her tears would never cease.
Jean held her awkwardly and looked over at Odette standing with a vivid light in her eyes and a mysterious smile upon her lips. “But, mamon,” protested Jean, “what is this? Why this hysterical manner? Has anything happened?”
“Anything? Ciel! he calls it anything, nothing to have been reported missing. He thinks me an insensate who did not mourn over him as one lost, dead, prisoner.”
“But I was never any of those things,” declared Jean. “I was in the fight, yes, but luckily I have not even a scratch. I was gassed a little, yes, and I have this permission to make up for it.”