“The first consideration is to get away from here as quickly as possible,” her grandfather went on. “Later we may be fortunate enough to find some better means of travel than on foot, but now it is the only means. Come.” He slung a strap over his shoulder, grasped his stick and started toward the door. To the strap was secured a valise, and he bore another in his hand. He did not cast one look behind, but went on to the gate, Lucie following with Pom Pom at her heels. In the rear came Paulette burdened with baskets, packages, bundles done up in handkerchiefs. Over her head and shoulders she wore the little black crocheted shawl which she was seldom without. She had on stout shoes, a blue stuff skirt, a jacket and an apron with capacious pockets. From her waist dangled a pair of headless fowls which she had not taken time to dress. From her neck, hanging by a stout cord, was appended a bottle of wine. One basket she carried on her head. From it protruded a long loaf of bread.
“I will close the door, Paulette,” said Lucie, turning back.
Paulette was too weighed down by her impedimenta to give her accustomed shrug, though she said. “What matter? Those boches will enter anyhow.”
Lucie felt a sudden sensation as of a clutch at her throat at this remark and as she saw Mousse placidly washing his face where he sat on the wall in the sunshine. “Adieu, adieu, my dear Mousse, dear home, dear garden,” she whispered.
A little whimper from Pom Pom was followed almost immediately by an ominous roar of guns. The enemy was coming nearer. At the crash of a bomb exploding in a just deserted street the long line of refugees hastened their steps.
Just ahead Lucie saw Annette with her grandfather who was helping along the feeble steps of his wife toward a ramshackle carriage which stood waiting for them. Everything in the way of a vehicle had been pressed into service. A woman was pushing a perambulator whose occupant, a little six months old baby, was almost hidden by the goods and chattels packed about him. Mothers hurried the tripping steps of their children. Old men hobbled haltingly. One decrepit old soul trundled in a wheelbarrow her more decrepit old husband. Pigs, cows, sheep, geese, turkeys had part in the procession. Little children hugged pet chickens or rabbits. Some had birds in cages; others clung fast to a favorite doll or a wooden horse.
The roar of the guns sounded more and more threatening. Fires flared up. There was the noise of crashing walls as the company moved on, on, down the road toward safety, leaving home and all its beloved associations behind them.
CHAPTER IV
A LONELY NIGHT
FOOTSORE, weary, hour after hour Lucie dragged herself along. The little bundle, which at first seemed not too great a weight, at last became intolerably heavy. One by one Paulette disposed of her bundles. Mons. Du Bois staggered under the valises, but refused to give them up. Poor little Pom Pom faithfully followed his mistress. At times he would lie down quite exhausted but always he caught up with his friends.
At last came along a cart drawn by two stout horses whose driver hailed them. “Ah, Mons. Du Bois, this is a sad journey for you,” he said. “I can perhaps give you a lift.”