Marie, whose apple-like countenance was not very expressive of anything but health, looked as sympathetic as the shape of her face would allow. Round rosy cheeks, round black eyes, and a round red mouth are not easy to mold into tragic lines, but Judy knew that Marie was feeling deeply for her. She was thinking of her Jean and the possibility of turning her bridal finery into mourning. There was so much mourning now and according to the Temps, the war was hardly begun.
“I’ll have my serge suit dyed to-morrow,” Judy confided to her.
“Ah, no! Do not have it dyed! Mère Tricot and I can do it here and do it beautifully. The butcher’s wife over the way is dyeing to-morrow and she will give us some of her mixture. It is her little brother who fell only yesterday.”
That night there was great excitement in the Montparnasse quarter. A fleet of air ships circled over the city, dropping bombs as they flew. The explosions were terrific. The people cowered in their homes at first and then came rushing out on the streets as the noise subsided.
Père Tricot came back with the news that no great harm had been done, but it was his opinion that the Prussians had been after the Luxembourg.
“They know full well that our art treasures are much to us, and they would take great pleasure in destroying them. The beasts!”
“Where did the bombs strike?” asked Judy from her couch in the living room. She had wept until her pillow had to be turned over and then had at last sunk into a sleep of exhaustion only to be awakened by the ear-splitting explosions.
“I don’t know exactly, but it was somewhere over towards the Gardens of the Luxembourg. I thank the good God you were here with us, my child.”