“And how did you find us?” asked Lucie, giving him both hands while he kissed her on either cheek.
“Through our good friend, Mons. Carriere. You know the Germans were driven from his village and when we entered I looked him up. He told me that he had directed you to a certain hotel, the name of which I stowed away in my memory. I found it closed, but I learned where I should find the family of the former proprietor; he, poor fellow, has been killed on the front.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Lucie. “The poor old father, and little André, I am so sorry for them.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Victor hastily. “So then I learned your address and came to find you.”
“But have you received none of my letters?” asked Lucie.
“Not one.”
“How unfortunate! Then I suppose one may believe that none of my letters have reached their destinations, those to my father, my mother, Annette. To my dear grandfather I could not write because I do not know where he is. That is the thing I wish first to know, Victor. Have you heard anything of my grandfather? Mons. Carriere might have learned something. Did you ask him?”
“I asked, yes.” Victor cast a hasty glance at Paulette, who answered by lifting her eyebrows and compressing her lips, but she said not a word. “You know that all those towns beyond there were occupied by the Germans, all that country, in fact.”
“Yes, I know that, but it is not so now, and if he had been there he could have left when the Germans retreated.”
“To be sure.” Victor looked down helplessly, picked up Pom Pom, put him down, got up and walked to the window, where he stood without saying anything.