Lucie sighed. “I wish there were something I could do, for soon my shoes will be gone, and yours, too, my Paulette; then we shall want warm things for the winter.”
“It will not be difficult if one can get work, for I still have a little hoard and there is Jean’s allotment when it comes. Do not be uneasy, my child. I begin to-morrow to hunt the city over for employment.”
“But, Paulette, you do not know the city, and you are afraid to go anywhere except in those streets with which you are acquainted.”
Paulette puffed out her cheeks and threw back her head. “Zut!” she exclaimed. “Have I then less courage than that little skinny ape of a child next door? Rest tranquil, chérie; I shall arrive.”
There was a great noise of shouting and cheering in the street at that moment. Lucie ran to the window to see. “Come, Paulette,” she cried. “Something is going on. A victory! Yes, it is a victory! Don’t you hear them shouting: ‘Vive la France,’ and ‘Vive Joffre’? Let us go down and see.”
“Bien,” responded Paulette laconically, putting up her knitting.
So, down the gloomy stairway they went to the street, where people were gathered in knots, all talking, exclaiming. “Is it then a victory at last?” inquired Paulette.
“A victory indeed,” the nearest woman told her. “They have driven those Boches across the Marne. We are safe.”
Paulette looked down at Lucie, who was eagerly listening, “If those silly donkeys of women had but waited another day,” she said, “I would still be holding my job.”
“They will come back, perhaps, when they know.”