From the outer room the voice of Jacques replied: "Yes, ma petite; I am here."
He came and put his arms about her; she laid her head against his rough coat, but her eyes were turned toward the empty bed. She was trying to remember.
Presently she sat up and asked: "Did the angel come and take grand'mère and carry her to the Holy Mother in heaven?"
Jacques crossed his heart. "Yes, ma petite," he said.
Faintly Claire René smiled and faintly she questioned: "But, my brothers?"
Jacques turned his troubled eyes away. She must wait, he said; when she was strong they would talk of many things. He told her that he had brought food to make her well, and that on the first warm day he would himself carry her out into the sunshine of the forest; there she would again run and sing and be like a happy, bright bird.
In the days that followed Claire René never spoke of grand'mère; she never spoke of her three brothers. She lay in her bed and stared about the quiet room. The silence was different, now that grand'mère was gone. Everything was different.
Jacques gave her food and care, and every day he said: "In only a little time you will be strong again, ma petite."
But something in his eyes kept her from speaking about Clément and Fernand and Alphonse. Often she thought about the telegrams upstairs in the high, white bed. She wondered if Jacques had found them there. Once she heard him walking on the floor above. He was there a long time, and when he came down his voice was queer and deep and his eyes were hidden behind a mist.
He never spoke any more about the "Great Man from America." Jacques was like grand'mère; he was old, he was full of sorrow. Claire René was afraid to ask about her letter; she thought about it each day.