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THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE (Page 90)

Little Jeanne of France

CHAPTER I
MADAME VILLARD

"The baby is a dear little dark-haired girl, Madame Villard (vē-lär´)," said the nurse.

Madame Villard came forward, and her face expressed the joy in her heart.

It was the twilight hour. Paris was busily honking and tooting outside the broad windows of Madame Villard's apartment.

The apartment looked out upon one of Paris' finest avenues. And Paris has many fine avenues. This had been Madame Villard's home for many years.

THE APARTMENT ON AVENUE CHAMPS ELYSÉES WHERE MADAME VILLARD LIVED

It was here she had raised her family—her boy and her girl. It was the same girl whose "dear little, dark-haired baby" had just come into the world.

"May I—may I see her?" asked Madame Villard softly.

The nurse led her into the room, and the grandmother looked with tear-dimmed eyes upon this first grandchild.

Baby Margot (mär´-gō) was Madame's first grandchild. At least, that is what Madame thought. Little did Madame Villard know that at this same moment another grandchild of hers was opening wondering brown eyes upon the same world!

The same world and the same country, France! Yet how different was this other grandchild's world from the world of little Margot!

Little soft, comfy Margot in her billowy pink and lace down! Little soft, cuddly Margot, whom Grandmother took into her arms that day! All the while, she did not know about the other grandchild.

That other grandchild did not have soft billowy pink and lace pillows on which to rest her head. That other grandchild did not have a grandmother's loving arms into which she could cuddle down.

That other grandchild—but I must not talk of her. I must talk of Margot. For Margot was all that Grandmother Villard could talk about or even think of that day.

Her own little daughter's daughter! It was so wonderful to think of Margot's being here. So wonderful for poor Madame Villard, whose only son Paul was fighting at the front in the Great War.

When the war had started, Paul had gone to fight for France. Now it was many months since Madame had heard from her soldier boy.

Soon after Paul had joined the army, he had met and married Jeanne (jēn) in a tiny village of France. Paul had written to his mother in Paris, telling her of his marriage.

A QUAINT STREET IN A LITTLE FRENCH VILLAGE FAR FROM THE ROAR OF CITIES

"You will love Jeanne," wrote Paul. "When this war is over, I shall bring her to Paris."

But the war was not over, and Jeanne had never been brought to Paris. Madame Villard did not hear from her boy again.

She did not know that on this happy day, while she held her little grandchild Margot in her arms, Paul's little girl was opening her brown eyes upon a different-looking world.

In a sad, war-stricken, bleak little village far from Paris, this other grandchild was born.

CHAPTER II
PAUL

Jeanne's baby was as beautiful as little Margot, though she did not lie upon lacy pillows in a Paris apartment.

Jeanne held the child tightly in her arms, as she rocked back and forth on a broken chair, and as she rocked she looked out upon the poor, little village street. Jeanne was a troubled young mother.

Paul had been at the front for many weeks now. He did not even know that little Jeanne was born. If only Paul would come back to the village!

There was talk of an invasion. Many small towns of France were being invaded and burned by the enemy. Would this little town be next?

Each day the villagers asked themselves this question and lived in terror. Many had already started to tramp toward Paris. Many were deserting the village.

But Jeanne could not go. There was little Jeanne now. And even if she could have gone, she would never have left until her Paul had come back.

Each day a letter went to Paul at the front. Each day Jeanne trembled at the postman's footsteps outside her door.

But no news. Only whispers and more whispers of invasion—invasion!

Oh, if Paul would only come back!

Jeanne rocked her baby.

The invasion came. It was one of the last invasions before the Great War came to an end. The enemy burned the little town to the ground.

The great march of the refugees had started. The roads to Paris were alive with homeless people—struggling, homeless humanity, with only the hope of reaching Paris alive.

The village—Paul's village—was a desolate place. As the troop of French soldiers returned after the invasion and marched into it, there was not a soul to be seen. Among those marching French soldiers came Paul.

A GROUP OF TYPICAL THATCH ROOFED HOUSES IN A LITTLE FRENCH VILLAGE

To the scene of his home he ran. Everything—everything was in ruins! His house! Gone! His wife!

"Jeanne! Jeanne!" Paul's voice was a shriek.

"Look, my son, in the cellar. Many of them hid in cellars for days before." It was a kind-faced old man speaking.

The distracted Paul dashed into the underground stone cave and called again, "Jeanne, oh, Jeanne!"