Paris? Why, yes; he could walk to Paris. He was a soldier! Marching refugees from other villages were constantly passing. The old man joined the peasant procession.
On his lips were the words, "On, on, on to Paris! On, on, on!"
And little Jeanne thought it was a lullaby and slept.
CHAPTER IV
ON TO PARIS
On trudged the old man. In his arms slept little Jeanne. She was as happy as Margot that day. Margot lay among the sweet-smelling cushions of her baby carriage and was rolled along the smooth walks of Paris parks.
But little Jeanne's "carriage" was not so soft, nor did it roll along. Indeed the old man's gait grew more and more jerky with every step. He watched the rest of the refugees passing him by.
There were families with many children. There were men and women carrying mattresses and clothing, pots and pans. There were dogs running along and barking.
They all passed the old man. Each one had another with whom to walk. But the old man walked alone.