“There are many Americans in the aviation camp, and very clever and apt they are, Philippe says. I am proud of my countrymen for coming forward as they are.”
“Yes, I think it is great for them to. I—I—think I ought not to marry Kent and go off and leave so much work to be done. I ought to help. Don’t you think so, Cousin Sally?” asked Judy.
The Marquise smiled at Judy’s calling her cousin, smiled and liked it. Kent looked uneasy and a little sullen. Suppose his Judy should balk at the last minute and refuse to leave the stirring scenes of war! What then? He had sworn not to return to United States without her, and unless he did return in a very short time, the very good job he had picked up in New York would be filled by some more fortunate and less in love young architect.
“Why, my dear, it is not the duty of all American girls to stay on this side and nurse any more than it is the duty of all American men to stay here and fight. Only those must do it who are called, as it were, by the spirit. You must marry my young cousin and go back to United States, and there your duty will begin, not only to make him the brave, fine wife that I know it is in you to make, but also to remember suffering France and Belgium. There is much work waiting for you. This war will last for years, thanks to that same Belgium who threw herself in the breach and stopped the tide of Prussians flowing into France. If it had not been for Belgium, the war would have been over now—yes, over—but France would have been under the heel of the tyrant and Belgium off of the map. Thank God for that brave little country!” and Judy and Kent bowed their heads as at a benediction.
Kent kissed the Marquise for her sensible advice. He very well knew that Judy would have been a great acquisition to his cousin’s hospital, and that workers were not numerous (not so plentiful at the beginning of the war as they were later). Her advice was certainly unselfish. He thanked her, also, for realizing that it was not up to all American men to stay and fight. He had no desire to fight any one unless his own country was at war, and then he felt he would do his duty as his ancestors had done before him.
“I tell you what we’ll do, you children and I: I’ll order out the car—I still keep one and a chauffeur so that with it I can bring the wounded back to Paris—and we will go out to the aviation camp and see Philippe and ask him to the wedding. You would like to see the camp, eh?”
“Above all things!” exclaimed Kent and Judy in chorus.
The broad grassy field, bordered by houses, sheds and workshops, presented a busy scene as the Ochtè car drove up. Biplanes were parked to one side like so many automobiles at a reception in a city, or buggies at a county seat on court day in an American town. The field was swarming with men, all eagerly watching a tiny speck off in the blue sky in the direction of the trenches where the French had called a halt on the Germans’ insolent and triumphant march to Paris.
No more attempt was made to stop the car of Madame the Marquise from coming into the aviation camp than there would have been had she been Joffre himself.
“They know me very well,” she said in answer to Kent’s inquiry as to this phenomenon, as he well knew they were very strict about visitors in camp. “I am ever a welcome guest here, not only because they know I love them, but because of something I bring.” She pointed to a great hamper of goodies packed in by the chauffeur.