And so the next day Pierre, very happy and important, and with a large box of luncheon under his arm, set out upon the train for the Pont-de-Saint-Michel silk mills. To be going on such a long journey all alone was a novel undertaking for the lad, who seldom left his own green valley. It was almost as wonderful as if he were starting for Marseilles, or indeed Paris itself. The place where he was going did not, however, possess the glamour of either of these great cities. On the contrary it was merely a sort of depot or centre to which all the cocoons bought up in the vicinity were sent to have the silk reeled from them; there were also at this plant some extensive throwing mills, but no weaving was done there. Instead the thrown silk was sold to the great weaving factories at Lyons, Tours, or other silk-making cities of France; and the raw product was sent to Marseilles, from which market it was either distributed to French mills or shipped to England or the United States for manufacture.
The day was a beautiful one. Massive white clouds hung low over the distant mountains; but the valley was flooded with golden sunshine that illumined it like some vast search-light. The vineyards never looked greener, the hillsides more velvety and cool, or the river more sparkling. Now the train skirted the banks of the stream, now shot past meadows of fertile farming land; or of a sudden it crossed a noisy mountain torrent and crept up the hillside until the vegetation became low and stunted, and the rocky peaks of the Pyrenees seemed but an arm's length away. Then slowly down over a trestle of airily poised bridge-work it descended to the valley again. Was ever a journey such a marvel? To the French boy who had seen little of the outside world it was an Arabian Night's dream.
All too soon Saint Michel was reached, and Pierre set out for the silk mills, where he presented the card that Monsieur Leclerq had given him. Then for a few minutes he waited in a small office where the jar of machinery and the whirr of wheels caused a monotonous and unceasing vibration.
Presently a giant foreman with sleeves rolled to the elbow came hurrying out.
He regarded Pierre with surprise.
"They told me that one of our silk-growers wanted to see me," faltered he uncertainly. "There has doubtless been some mistake. You are but a boy."
"I am nevertheless a silk-grower," smiled Pierre modestly. "It is because the men of our household are in the trenches that I——"
Impulsively the foreman thrust out his hand.
"I too have relatives in the battle line," he said. "My brother and cousins are there, and I should be with them now were it not for an ugly wound I got at the Marne. They will not take me back to fight, even though I have begged to go. And so here I am—restless and half angry that I must remain boxed up at Saint Michel and make silk instead of being where the firing is going on. Yet some must stay behind and carry on the country's industries. Perhaps I can still do my bit here. I have tried to be philosophical about it and work as hard as I can, for I feel that those who cannot help in one way can, maybe, help in another."
He glanced at the card Pierre had brought.