“Well said, brave garçon,” cried Mons. Carriere, “but let me suggest, monsieur, that if you wish to make that train, your opportunity is very short.”
With that Victor grasped Lucie’s hands, kissed her upon either cheek, did the same to Paulette and was off at a run for the station. Lucie ran a short way the better to see the last of him, and stood where she could have a view of the train already to be heard approaching.
Paulette wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “He is pure gold, that lad,” she said brokenly to Mons. Carriere. “Such courage, such cheerfulness, such invention! When I think that he may be fodder for cannon I cannot endure it.”
“It is such as he will save France,” returned Mons. Carriere. “We must be willing to let them go, to die, perhaps, for their country. Death is not the end.”
“You perhaps have no son to sacrifice,” returned Paulette.
“I have three,” replied he quietly, “and you, madame?”
“I have one and one only. He is a poilu like yonder lad.”
“But you do not weep that he gives himself for his country?”
“I weep in secret, but also I am proud that he was one of the first to go.”
The train was now moving out of the station. Paulette turned her back upon it, but Lucie stood waving farewells to Victor, who in response waved his adieux.