Almost before the ambulance had braked to a stop Father Duprey’s tall, erect figure swung down from the front seat, and Pierre rushed to admit him. The driver immediately began to back the long vehicle close to the door.
Marie cried softly, “Heavens, Father, what a calamity! The Nazis! What can we do?”
“We can act sensible,” said Father Duprey, “and waste no time moaning about what we can’t help. Those men are evidently going to search the Julliard farm next door before they come here. Let the driver in with the stretcher, daughter, so we lose no time getting Mme. Gagnon away.”
The driver sidled in and M. Gagnon seized the stretcher. The two men hurried up the stairs.
A few seconds later the creaking steps warned André that his mother was being carried down. He signaled Ronald to be ready for his dash.
“Now,” said Father Duprey to Marie, “sob a little, but not enough to draw much attention.”
André held the door while the little procession puffed and brushed through. Mme. Gagnon was lifted easily in through the ambulance door. And a moment later, Ronald, clutching his awkward bundle of skirts as naturally as he could, climbed in and crouched beside the stretcher. His face was hidden by the width of his headdress, and he bent gently over the sick woman.
“It is all going like clockwork, madame,” he whispered. “Don’t be frightened.”
“I—I’m afraid,” murmured Mme. Gagnon, “more for Pierre, for Marie and André....”
Standing by the road, Pierre looked with mounting anxiety at the soldiers prowling through the farm next door. They were not spending much time there.