Before the march was over, little Jeanne was the only child Suzanne had ever kissed.
For a long time after reaching Paris, Suzanne Moreau's only thought was to tend this baby for whom she had promised to care.
She expected to take the baby to the home where it belonged. But her first thought was to give the child a few days' good care and food before giving her up.
It was a thought which Suzanne would never have admitted was selfish. But the truth was that little Jeanne's baby fingers had so tenderly wound themselves about the heart of Suzanne Moreau that already the thought of parting with her was unbearable. A few days passed. Then a week, and then more days.
"I should. I should," sighed Suzanne, as she watched the little girl sucking contentedly on her bottle.
Then when the bottle was emptied, Baby Jeanne lifted her two pink hands.
In her arms Suzanne rocked the baby back and forth and murmured, "No, no, my little one, ma chérie (mä shĕr-ē´, which means "my dear" in French), I cannot give you up. Not yet."
This went on for some time. At last one night Suzanne determined to go to that address on the Avenue Champs Elysées. She went alone. She left the child in the care of a woman with whom she boarded.
Before the tall stone building, Suzanne stood and marveled. It seemed a palace to the little village dressmaker. How could she keep this child from a home like that? To-morrow, yes, to-morrow, she would take Jeanne to her rightful home.
As she turned to leave, a big motor car drew up at the curb, and a black figure stepped out. Madame Villard had returned from another unsuccessful search. She was returning to her daughter and to little Margot, discouraged, disappointed, and heart-sick.