As her boy’s sagging, insensible body was brought clear of the wreck
The crowd shouted in unison as they caught sight of Lemois’ gray head, all the whiter from the grime of powdered plaster. Then came another and louder shout, followed by another piercing shriek from Gaston’s mother as her boy’s sagging, insensible body was brought clear of the wreck. None of his bones were broken, none that Lemois could find; something had struck the boy—some falling weight—perhaps a bust from one of the bookcases over his head. That was the last the lad had known until he found his mother kneeling beside him in the rain and mud, where the cold wind and rain revived him.
But our work was not yet over. The miscellaneous assortment of precious things housed in the garage must be rearranged before nightfall and protected against breakage and leakage. Watchmen must be selected and made comfortable in the garage, a telegram despatched to madame at her apartment in Paris, with details of the catastrophe and salvage, and another to her estate at Rouen, and, more important still, Gaston must be carried home, put to bed, and a doctor sent for. This done, Herbert and the rest of us could go back to the inn in Le Blanc’s motor.
The first load brought Herbert, Brierley, and myself, Le Blanc driving: Lemois had remained with Gaston. Mignon, with staring, inquiring eyes, her apron over her head to protect her from the wet, met us at the outer gate, but not a word was said by any of us about Gaston, a crack on a fisherman’s head not being a serious affair—and then again, this one was as tough as a rudder-post and as full of spring as an oar—and then, more important still, the poor child with her hungry, tear-stained eyes had had trouble enough for one day, as we all knew. Later when Leà and I were alone, I told her the story, describing Gaston’s pluck and bravery and his risking his life to save Lemois—the dear old woman clasping her fingers together as if in church when I added that “he’d be all right in the morning after a good night’s rest.”
“Pray God nothing happens to him!” she said at last, crossing herself. “Mignon is only a child and it would break her heart. Monsieur Lemois does not wish it, and there is trouble—much trouble—ahead for her, but while there is life there is hope. He is a good Gaston—his mother and I were girls together; she had only this one left—the boat upset and the father was drowned off Les Dents Terribles two years ago.”
Louis, whose heart is as big as his body, was less cautious. He must have a word with the girl herself. And so, when we had all gathered before the fire to dry out—for most of us were still wet and all ravenous—he called out to her in his cheery, hearty way:
“That is a plucky garçon of yours, mademoiselle. Monsieur Lemois would have been flattened into a pancake but for him. When the house fell it was Monsieur Gaston who jerked him away from the window and rolled a sofa on top of him. Ah!—a brave garçon, and one who does you credit.”
The girl—she was busying herself with her dishes at the time—blushed and said: “Merci, monsieur,” her eyes dancing over the praise of her lover, but she was too modest and too well trained to say more.
Again Le Blanc’s siren came shrieking down the road. This time it would bring Lemois. I threw on another log to warm them both, and Louis began collecting a small assortment of glasses, Mignon following with a decanter.
Several minutes passed, during which we waited for the heavy tread of fat Le Blanc. Then the door opened and Leà appeared; she was trembling from head to foot and white as a ghost.