Little Jeanne of France. Brandeis Madeline
and rocked the baby – his baby! He sat and rocked little Jeanne, much as his wife had rocked her before that terrible invasion.
Now his wife was gone. Little Jeanne's mother had not been able to escape as had many of the other villagers. She was dead. Weak and undernourished, the poor woman had been unable to withstand hardships and suffering in a cold, damp cellar.
The invasion had killed little Jeanne's mother. Paul alone now remained to care for this helpless mite.
Paul was a troubled, frantic soldier. He would be called back to the front at any moment. What would he do with the baby?
Just then he heard the bugle and the call to arms: "To the front."
A scurrying soldier passed him and called out, "Make haste. To the front!"
Paul could not move. The baby was asleep in his arms. Little, trusting baby – his baby! The soldier dropped his head in the folds of little Jeanne's dress and sobbed.
A slight tap upon his shoulder brought Paul's head erect. Bending over him was the same old man. It was the kind-faced little peasant who had spoken to him at the cellar door.
"Come, my son," he said, "You are a soldier of France! Would that my old body could fight in your place! But it is you who must go. France needs you, my son."
He slowly helped the soldier to his feet, as the baby in his arms slept on.
Paul saw the light of goodness shining out of the old eyes. With a surge of joy in his heart, he held out his child.
"Oh, my friend," he cried, "if you will take my baby, I can go. I can then go and fight for France. But never, never could I leave her alone, even for France! Take her, friend, and guard her with your life."
The old peasant's eyes grew troubled. For he knew not what he, a poverty-stricken, weakened old man might do with an infant, here in this smoldering ruin of a village. But he held out his arms.
"Yes, I shall take care of her," he promised.
"With your life, my friend," repeated Paul. "Here," he added, as he pulled from his pockets handfuls of small coins. "All I have. Take it. Take her to Paris – to my mother. Wait!"
And Paul then wrote a note – a scrawled, jumbled note – to his mother, Madame Villard, in Paris.
"I am telling her you are coming with my baby – with little Jeanne," he said. "Take her to the address I write on this paper. See! I pin it to her little skirt. Hurry, my friend. Take her. Take her. Adieu, adieu, my little Jeanne!"
The last words were heard afar off, as the father of little Jeanne joined his regiment. Then he marched to the front, into the face of a cruel battle.
The old man stood still and watched the soldier disappearing. He and this baby were the only remaining inhabitants in this town.
The rest were marching, marching, on their way to Paris. He, too, must march to Paris.
An old man with a baby!
It was a long way, but he had given his word to a soldier of France. Did this not make of him a soldier, too?
The old body stiffened, and he stood erect. His hand slowly saluted the departing troops. He, too, was a soldier.
He looked at the address which Paul had pinned to the skirt of little Jeanne: Madame Villard, Avenue Champs Elysées (shän´zā-lē-zā´), Paris.
Paris? Why, yes; he could walk to Paris. He was a soldier! Marching refugees from other villages were constantly passing. The old man joined the peasant procession.
On his lips were the words, "On, on, on to Paris! On, on, on!"
And little Jeanne thought it was a lullaby and slept.
CHAPTER IV
ON TO PARIS
On trudged the old man. In his arms slept little Jeanne. She was as happy as Margot that day. Margot lay among the sweet-smelling cushions of her baby carriage and was rolled along the smooth walks of Paris parks.
But little Jeanne's "carriage" was not so soft, nor did it roll along. Indeed the old man's gait grew more and more jerky with every step. He watched the rest of the refugees passing him by.
There were families with many children. There were men and women carrying mattresses and clothing, pots and pans. There were dogs running along and barking.
They all passed the old man. Each one had another with whom to walk. But the old man walked alone.
It grew very hard – this walking. He rested often, and each time it was harder to rise and to start the walk again. Only his promise to a soldier of France kept his old body going. At last he dropped heavily at the side of the road.
Jeanne was asleep. The thud awoke her. The old man could go no farther.
Jeanne did not cry. She was happy and satisfied. She had been well cared for. When they had passed farms with cows, little Jeanne had been fed.
The old man looked at her and touched the little soft cheek with his horny hand.
"Little one, I am finished," he whispered. "I have tried so hard, but Paris is too far – too far. It is too far to the front."
With that, the old man slept. Jeanne lay in his arms and blew bubbles to the sky. She watched the trees as they swayed back and forth.
"This world is a pleasant place," it would seem the tiny girl was thinking.
For a long time the old man slept. He was awakened by the sound of a clear voice. He looked into the sad face of a young woman in a black shawl. She was holding Jeanne's two little hands in her fingers.
"Is this your baby?" she asked.
"No, no, my child. I am taking her to Paris to – ."
He tried to lift himself but fell back again.
"You are spent. You must not carry this child any farther. Come; give her to me," said the woman.
She took little Jeanne in her arms. The old man's eyes searched her face to try to fathom it. He tried to find there what he hoped to see: kindness. But all he saw was sadness.
Suzanne Moreau (mō-rō´) was one of the many refugees who had fled from her invaded village. She was one of the few in that long line who marched alone. Suzanne had always lived alone, as long as she could remember. Her life had been a lonely one. She had been a dressmaker in the small town where she had lived.
Everyone there had known her as Auntie Sue. She was Auntie Sue to children and grown-ups alike.
The old man tried to fathom Suzanne as he looked deep into her eyes and watched her wrap little Jeanne carefully in her shawl.
"I am quite alone," she said. "I am strong and shall make the march easily. Do not fear."
She gave her hand to the old man and he kissed it.
"God bless you," he breathed. Then he reminded her, "Remember: Avenue Champs Elysées, Madame Villard."
She nodded her head. She smiled at him and was off.
CHAPTER V
SUZANNE
It was a month since the day when Madame Villard had received two letters. Just a month had passed since the silver-haired lady and her daughter had pored over two such different letters.
One was a scrawl – Paul's. He wrote that his baby was on her way to Paris to her grandmother. It was a dirty, scrawly note, but full of hope to the two who read it.
The next letter, neat and precise, was from the government. Before they opened it, the two women knew: Paul's little one was now an orphan. For a month, how that mother and sister waited!
With Madame Villard lived her daughter and her daughter's husband. They were the parents of Baby Margot.
Margot's father had come back from the war. But though he had returned to his dear ones, he would never again be able to walk. He would be an invalid for life. So Margot's mother had two helpless ones to care for. And one of those was Margot's father.
Grandmother