“And Gustave?”
“Was sent into Germany by the Boches.”
Lucie, who had recovered from her first violent fit of crying, said quietly, “I would rather my grandfather should die than be sent into Germany.”
“One is not necessarily ill treated,” said Victor. “He would be made to work, and he would not feast on the fat of the land, to be sure.”
“And I suppose those Boches had the benefit of our basket of food that was in the cart,” said Paulette, turning to Lucie.
Sad as the occasion was, Victor could not withstand smiling, and even into Lucie’s eyes crept a less mournful look. It was so like Paulette to regret the food.
“I suppose you have seen nothing of my Jean,” said Paulette, changing the subject.
Victor shook his head. “Do you hear from him?” he asked.
“Not often. Once or twice. He was safe two weeks ago. He is a good boy, that Jean, and when he gets his permissionaire he will come to see me, though I wish he might find me elsewhere than in Paris.”
“Then you do not like this fine city.”