“La la,” she responded, “this sort of argument is a thing to make one laugh, and quite aside from our business. Where is it we go, monsieur, without wasting more words or time?”
“We go to my house where you rest until I have completed my quest for Mons. Du Bois. If I do not discover him, then we will see what can be done about your pursuing your journey to Paris. Meanwhile you have nothing to do but make yourselves comfortable. My housekeeper will see to that, I assure you.”
“But, monsieur,” Paulette began protesting.
He lifted his hand to silence her. “It is nothing. In these days one takes what comes and says no word.”
They followed him up the street, turned a corner and halted before a house which reminded Lucie of her own home. A green gate set in a white wall led, probably, into just such another garden as she had left so regretfully. It was through this gate that they entered, and, true to Lucie’s expectations, the garden was there, holding the familiar trees and flowers which spoke to her of home. Her lips trembled and her eyes filled with tears. She stole a glance at Paulette whose face had a wooden expression. She was looking neither to the right nor left.
“Marianne,” called Mons. Carriere.
A stout, middle-aged woman came to a side door.
“We have guests,” announced Mons. Carriere. “See that they have everything to make them comfortable. They have passed through grievous scenes, Marianne. They are victims of the war. This good woman, you see, has been wounded, and mademoiselle here has become separated from her parents, has passed the night alone in a cow shed in the very track of the enemy.”
“Mon Dieu!” cried Marianne, hurrying down the steps. “Certainly, monsieur, they shall of the best. I, myself, will see that they are cared for. Enter, madame. Enter, mademoiselle. I am honored.”
They passed into the house, where Marianne bustled about in great excitement and presently a plentiful meal was set before them to which Mons. Carriere left them while he went forth upon his errand of inquiry. It was not long before Paulette and Marianne were chattering together like old friends, their conversation interspersed with many pious ejaculations, and on Marianne’s part with many expressions of astonishment. Soon tiring of their talk Lucie stole out into the garden, finding it upon closer investigation very like, yet unlike, her own. There was no stone bench. There was no cherry tree overhanging the wall over which she might see Annette’s face appear. She wondered what Annette was doing. This recalled Pom Pom, whose achievements had been made the subject of some of Paulette’s recital. She wondered where he was. In the excitement of her parting from Victor, and in reaching this haven of rest, she had not thought of much except the possibility of soon seeing her grandfather, forgetting for the moment all about the little dog. The last she had seen of him he was at the station at Victor’s heels.