A little maid of Picardy

by Amy Ella Blanchard

He looked quite aghast when she laid the plan before him. “But, my dear child,” he exclaimed, “this will never do in the world. The place is not yet safe. It is in a condition most wretched, most pathetic. The discomforts will be intolerable for you. Why not consent to remain with us until the war is over, and then if you must go back wait till things are in better condition?”

But Lucie was deaf to all these arguments. “It will have to depend altogether upon what my father says,” she maintained. “As for me I am as able as Mlle. Lowndes or any one to endure privations. If she, an American, can do this for France must I be deprived of what is plainly a duty?” So it was left to hear what Captain Du Bois would say, and Lucie possessed her soul in patience.

She had rather a long time to wait, but the answers came in course of time. First one from her father. He appreciated her feelings in the matter. He had been in communication with Miss Lowndes and had learned that she had asked to be sent to the town which had been, formerly, their home. There would be much to do, and she would be only too glad of helpers, and therefore if Lucie felt it her duty to go, there should be no restriction upon her act. She would best meet Miss Lowndes in Paris and place herself under her care.

Lucie showed the letter triumphantly to Mons. Le Brun. He read it, shook his head doubtfully, but made no further comment than “Eh bien, you go.” A little later he took to pacing the floor, stopped abruptly and exclaimed passionately: “I would to heaven I were going, too, but my wife would perish among such scenes. There is nothing to do but remain. We are too old to begin life over again in want and discomfort.”

Next came the letter from Miss Lowndes. She was enthusiastic. It would be wonderful to have Lucie as a companion, and that dear good Paulette who was a host in herself. They might have privations, probably would, but they would not starve, and it was a splendid work. A few of the better class of refugees were ready to return, though not many. The old curé was eager to head the returning company. They would start the last of the month.

Then there came a day when the basket which Paulette had so hurriedly packed for their flight was repacked for the return with the same utensils carefully hoarded all this time. “We shall need them,” remarked Paulette. The array of bundles and crates far exceeded that with which they had started forth from home, for contributions came from every quarter. The pair of chickens which Paulette had slung in their decapitated condition from her waist was increased to two pairs of live ones donated by Madame Guerin. A pair of rabbits, too, was offered as well as a couple of pigeons. Add to this menagerie Pom Pom, and the confusion of sounds may be imagined, though to the rabbits one cannot impute much of a racket. From none of these things would Paulette be parted. How she managed to dispose of them so that they would not interfere with one another is a puzzle, but manage she did. Lucie, of course, carried Pom Pom. Such acquisitions as Paulette would yield up to her Odette took in charge. Whatever was impossible of being transported by hand was sent on. With the prospect of Paulette’s disappearance from his path Jules ceased to be grouchy and these two parted with many polite expressions of mutual good-will. Michel was almost in tears, the housemaids wept openly. Mons. Le Brun slipped an envelope into Lucie’s hand, “For some one who may need it,” he whispered. Later on Lucie discovered the fifty franc note within.

“Au ’voir! Au ’voir!” followed them till they turned the corner of the road by the Calvary and the white house of Coin-du-Pres was lost to view. It had been truly a haven of refuge, and Lucie trembled a little as she realized that again she was launching out upon the wide sea of uncertainty.

At the station in Paris there was Miss Lowndes to meet them, looking a little older, a little thinner, but as bright and cheerful as ever. At sight of Paulette’s accumulations she was rather staggered for a moment, but she had seen too many refugees to be long nonplussed, and in an incredibly short space of time she had found a man with a handcart into which everything was bundled but the livestock from which Paulette absolutely refused to be parted.

Paris in June was a more attractive place than Paris in November, and Lucie was not sorry to be there. Her satisfaction increased, however, to real enthusiasm when Miss Lowndes told her that the first American troops had already landed and were expected in Paris the next day.

“And we shall see them, Lucie, we shall see them,” Miss Lowndes said to her. “I am so glad that we do not leave before that. I could not have stood it.”