“I didn’t want it, and it was my very own—you said so.”
As that was true, nothing more was said about the chest, at the time, but nothing could stop Mrs. Alexander from planning and scheming about her daughter’s future. As the other girls and Mrs. Fabian said nothing about shopping, but preferred waiting until they returned to Paris again, it was decided that they would start on the trip the following day. That evening was devoted to studying a road-map and selecting an itinerary.
Mr. Alexander had but one desire in the matter, and that began and ended with the first lap of the drive. “I want to see the war-zone, where our boys fit them Germans. I hear ’em tell in the hotel lobby, that the roads are fair all through them battle fields like Verdun, on the Somme, and others. So I want to drive there, and then, afterwards, you can do what you-all like on this tour with me as chauffeur.”
“Oh, we all want to pass through those famous places, too, so that is settled,” exclaimed Nancy Fabian, glancing at her friends for approval of this plan.
“All right. Put that down on your paper, Professor,” advised Mr. Alexander; then he leaned back and sighed as if he had done all that was expected of him.
After several hours of planning and writing, the route was mapped out, and the group felt that it was as good as any ever made by a number of tourists.
It was noon the next day before the party really started on its way, as the Count failed to appear on time, and an hour was lost in trying to get him on a telephone. When he did appear, he had a gorgeous bouquet of hothouse flowers for Mrs. Alexander, and a huge box of bon-bons for the girls.
That afternoon they drove over the famous sector where millions fought and fell for a Principle, in the greatest mortal combat the world has ever witnessed. After seeing the ruins the war made of Verdun, as well as of other villages, Mr. Alexander drove to Reims. Here they found quarters for the night, and waited to visit the cathedral in the morning.
From Reims they went through St. Quentin, and on to Boulogne. That night they stopped at a quaint inn in Normandy. The ancient hostelry was but two stories high, with upper windows overlooking a wonderful garden. The high stone wall that enclosed this garden had niches, every so often, in the thick wall.
Mr. Fabian spoke excellent French, and the other members in the party understood everything that was said, so all enjoyed the conversation that now took place.