But will he come back? That is the awful question. Aviation is dangerous enough, even here in a peaceful country. What earthly chance of life has one over there in the midst of this horrible war? It makes me shudder every time I think of it, and I don't dare think of it much. I have awful nightmares about it every night.
The Imp has taken to reading up everything she can find on the subject, and she insists on telling us hair-raising tales about the dangers and accidents that happen to military aviators. I asked her once if it didn't simply make her sick to think of such things in connection with Louis, but she only said:
"Oh, no! Louis's not going to have things like that happen to him. He's different!" I only wish I had her faith.
Louis's departure with the marquis was a nine-days' wonder here, of course. Everybody talked about it incessantly for a while, speculating at the greatest length on why in the world a French nobleman should do such an eccentric thing. But naturally, no one except we three girls ever guessed the truth, or ever will. For it was the marquis's wish that, even as things turned out, the truth about the dauphin should never be made public.
We have all gone back to school, and are plodding along in the same prosaic way. The only thing we're doing that really interests us is to knit an outfit for Louis—a sweater, a helmet, some wristlets, and socks. He said before he left that he'd probably need them, and we promised to make them as quickly as possible.
September 28. We had a letter from Louis to-day,—the first since he left. Of course it caused the wildest excitement. He said they had a safe voyage across, and he wasn't seasick a minute, though the marquis and old Mr. Meadows were very ill. Louis said that they went straight to Paris, and there the marquis used his influence and had him enlisted in the French Air Service. In a few days Louis was notified to report for duty at the Hôtel des Invalides. Here he went through his physical examination, passed it, and then was sent to Dijon to get his outfit, which is provided by the government. After going through all that, he was sent to Pau (we've looked up these places in the Atlas, and know exactly where they are!) to become a member of the flying-school.
Louis had been there only a week when he wrote this letter, but he says that, owing to the hard study he put in on Page Calvin's machine, he's almost perfect in the mechanical parts,—the engine and steering,—and instead of having to spend several weeks at that, he can soon begin the actual flying. Of course I don't understand all his technical talk, but one thing is easy to see—he's completely and absolutely happy. He says he'll write again when he's actually "been up," but that he has hardly a moment to himself during the day, and at night he's so tired that he almost falls asleep on the way to bed. The French course must be very strict and exacting.
November 22, 1914. I didn't suppose it would be so long before I'd write here again, but there's generally nothing much to write. Paradise Green has returned to its old, sleepy nonentity of a place since Louis went away. Only one thing has stirred the quiet surface of our family. Dave has been extremely morose and uneasy ever since Louis's departure, and yesterday he launched a thunderbolt in our midst by asking Father if he could go off to "the front" and enlist in the French army. Father was very quiet about it, but he refused absolutely. Then Dave broke down and blubbered like a baby. He said he wanted to do something to help in this beastly mess, and that he thought America was "rotten" not to get into it, too. But Father said:
"If America ever does get into it, Dave, you'll go with my full permission,—but not till then!" So Dave had to be content with that.
We heard from Louis to-day,—the most wonderful letter! Two weeks ago he finished his course in aviation and was ordered to duty at the front. So off he went (he wasn't allowed to tell us where the "front" was) and has been there ever since, scouting over the enemy's lines in a biplane with the chef pilote, to familiarize himself with conditions. He will soon be actively engaged with the enemy. It makes me sick and cold to think of it. Will we ever see Louis alive again, walking about Paradise Green in the old way? I have simply made up my mind that it is not possible,—that if it ever happens, it will be nothing short of a miracle.