As Lucie came up Paulette wiped her eyes, turning to Mons. Carriere to say hastily: “Do not let us mention Monsieur Victor, if you please.”
“He has gone, Paulette,” cried Lucie. “Is he not fine and brave? Ah me, I wish—”
“Cela ne fait rien,” Paulette interrupted with a shrug of her shoulders. “The next thing is to find Mons. Du Bois. What is gone is gone.”
“Do you think it possible that my grandfather is here?” Lucie asked Mons. Carriere.
“It is very possible. This young poilu, who has just left, charged me to take you to a safe place, to house the donkey and to return it to one Jacques La Rue when opportunity came. Allons, then, to my house we go and then proceed to investigate. You are able to walk, madame? By the way, have you been hurt that your head is bound up in such fashion?”
“She has shed her blood for France,” cried Lucie. “That wound was caused by the enemy.”
“Ma foi, what a fantasie!” cried Paulette. “I assure you, monsieur, that my hurt was caused simply by a falling wall. I was passing; the wall gives way, the brick descends upon my head; that is all.”
“Ah, but the falling wall, that came from the bombs of the enemy,” persisted Lucie. “Is it not, monsieur, that she has suffered for France?”
“Most surely,” he answered. “She has been wounded, though indirectly, by the enemy, and so is to be honored as a soldier.”
“There,” exclaimed Lucie, “it is as I said, Paulette.”