“Well?” said Lucie at last. “Why don’t you go on, Victor?” she added in a panic. “What is it? What have you heard?”
“You know they shelled those towns,” said Victor at last, his back still turned.
“Yes, yes, I know. Poor grandfather, he was hurt! I see. Tell me, tell me. He lies somewhere wounded, suffering.”
Victor turned around, came close and took her two hands in his. “He is not suffering now, little Lucie,” he said gently.
Lucie looked at him wildly for a moment, then she understood. She buried her face in her hands for a moment, then she ran sobbing to Paulette to hide her face on the good woman’s shoulder. “He is dead, grandfather is dead!” she faltered. “Oh, this cruel, cruel war, will it take everything from us?”
“Courage, little one, courage,” whispered Paulette, patting her softly. “He was not young, the dear man. His time had come and the good God took him.”
“Tell me,” said Lucie, turning her streaming eyes upon Victor. “Tell me all.”
“This Gustave Foucher in whose cart your grandfather traveled, turned aside, as you already know, but, poor man, he turned the wrong way, for soon he found himself in the midst of bombardment. He could not go on; he could not go back. The Germans were in possession, shells were bursting, bombs falling. In hurrying to shelter your grandfather was struck by shrapnel. He lived on a few minutes. A quick death and an easy one.”
“And how did you learn this, Mons. Victor?” asked Paulette.
“I inquired in every town through which I passed, and at last I was told by those remaining in the town. They remembered Foucher quite well, and the old man who came with him and who was killed.”