They had just begun to retrace their steps when Weller said, “Listen.”
André had heard sounds too—a creaking and the clop, clop of hoofbeats.
Coming down the wet road a new, unpainted cart rattled into sight. Between the shafts clumped La Fumée. And, waving the reins behind the dashboard, stood Victor.
“André!” he shouted. “Where did you go?” He brushed at his enormous mustache nervously. “Well, never mind now. Get in. Get in. I’ll drive you home.”
André gulped with relief. Weller demanded, “Ask him how he got home.”
André repeated the question in French, and Victor threw out his hands indignantly.
“How should I come?” he shouted. “By any open road those soldiers and tanks left for my use. Americans, Americans everywhere! Tanks! Guns! I have been halfway around the world to get here, it seems.”
“But where did you find your cart? I thought it was blown up!” André cried.
Victor’s eyebrows expressed more astonishment.