“Really? How stupid of me not to notice, but these other things—” she stopped to draw a long sigh. “I congratulate you, Victor. How did you win your stripe?”
“Oh, never mind; it was a little matter not worth the talking about. I only drew attention to it that you might properly respect me. To-morrow being Sunday I thought we might celebrate it by a little dinner. I believe they still dine in Paris. It is fine weather. We will make a holiday and take a walk in the gardens and have a little treat. What do you say, Paulette? You will go?”
Paulette, pleased to be included, smiled a gracious acceptance, at the same time knowing perfectly well that Lucie could not be allowed to go without her, and believing it would be a good thing to divert the child at this particular time.
“And Annette, you hear from Annette? That is another person who does not answer my letters,” said Lucie.
“Ah, yes, Annette, of course. She is safe, out of the danger zone, but not in the place she expected to be, for that ceased to be safe, and with her grandparents she has gone farther off.”
“So, of course that is why I have not heard from her.”
“I will give you her address; that much at least I can do, and I promise I will soon have news of your father.”
“You are very comforting, Victor; you always are, even this time when you bring me such sorrowful tidings, you comfort me, too. It is very hard for us to have no one.”
“There is no use in complaining,” said Paulette stoically. “We have done very well, Mons. Victor. We have not starved and we have kept a roof over our heads, which is more than some can say. I will light you down. One must not illuminate these days.”
“Good night, little Lucie, and keep up your courage,” said Victor. “To-morrow we shall make a holiday, a quiet one, but still a holiday.”