But bombs were dropping, though at a distance. Several minutes later, the coastal guns were still firing, but the sound of the engines had begun to die away.
“Listen,” said Mme. Gagnon in a relieved voice. “You were right, André, they dropped no bombs on us.”
André heard his sister’s footsteps on the stairs. Then he thought he heard the creak of the attic door. Presently she came bustling into the room, carrying a small tray with a pot of chocolate and a cup.
Cheerfully, she said, “There, Maman, they’ve gone. Let’s hope we get no more planes tonight. Here,” pouring the chocolate, “drink this and try to get back to sleep.”
Her dark skirts swished around her knees as she fluffed up her mother’s pillows and tucked in the coverlet.
Downstairs the front door opened and they heard Pierre Gagnon calling, “Marie!”
Then someone spoke in another voice.
“Shh-h,” whispered Marie. “There is someone with Papa.”
Her father was saying loudly, “Yes, Herr Kapitan, I’m all right. No, no, it is not necessary for you to come in.”
Before Marie and André reached the head of the stairs, the outside door was slammed, bolted, and the stranger had gone.