"With your life, my friend," repeated Paul. "Here," he added, as he pulled from his pockets handfuls of small coins. "All I have. Take it. Take her to Paris—to my mother. Wait!"
And Paul then wrote a note—a scrawled, jumbled note—to his mother, Madame Villard, in Paris.
"I am telling her you are coming with my baby—with little Jeanne," he said. "Take her to the address I write on this paper. See! I pin it to her little skirt. Hurry, my friend. Take her. Take her. Adieu, adieu, my little Jeanne!"
The last words were heard afar off, as the father of little Jeanne joined his regiment. Then he marched to the front, into the face of a cruel battle.
The old man stood still and watched the soldier disappearing. He and this baby were the only remaining inhabitants in this town.
The rest were marching, marching, on their way to Paris. He, too, must march to Paris.
An old man with a baby!
It was a long way, but he had given his word to a soldier of France. Did this not make of him a soldier, too?
The old body stiffened, and he stood erect. His hand slowly saluted the departing troops. He, too, was a soldier.
He looked at the address which Paul had pinned to the skirt of little Jeanne: Madame Villard, Avenue Champs Elysées (shän´zā-lē-zā´), Paris.