“Well said, brave _garçon_,” cried Mons. Carriere, “but let me suggest, monsieur, that if you wish to make that train, your opportunity is very short.” With that Victor grasped Lucie’s hands, kissed her upon either cheek, did the same to Paulette and was off at a run for the station. Lucie ran a short way the better to see the last of him, and stood where she could have a view of the train already to be heard approaching. Paulette wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “He is pure gold, that lad,” she said brokenly to Mons. Carriere. “Such courage, such cheerfulness, such invention! When I think that he may be fodder for cannon I cannot endure it.” “It is such as he will save France,” returned Mons. Carriere. “We must be willing to let them go, to die, perhaps, for their country. Death is not the end.” “You perhaps have no son to sacrifice,” returned Paulette. “I have three,” replied he quietly, “and you, madame?” “I have one and one only. He is a _poilu_ like yonder lad.” “But you do not weep that he gives himself for his country?” “I weep in secret, but also I am proud that he was one of the first to go.” The train was now moving out of the station. Paulette turned her back upon it, but Lucie stood waving farewells to Victor, who in response waved his adieux. As Lucie came up Paulette wiped her eyes, turning to Mons. Carriere to say hastily: “Do not let us mention Monsieur Victor, if you please.” “He has gone, Paulette,” cried Lucie. “Is he not fine and brave? Ah me, I wish--” “_Cela ne fait rien_,” Paulette interrupted with a shrug of her shoulders. “The next thing is to find Mons. Du Bois. What is gone is gone.” “Do you think it possible that my grandfather is here?” Lucie asked Mons. Carriere. “It is very possible. This young _poilu_, who has just left, charged me to take you to a safe place, to house the donkey and to return it to one Jacques La Rue when opportunity came. _Allons_, then, to my house we go and then proceed to investigate. You are able to walk, madame? By the way, have you been hurt that your head is bound up in such fashion?” “She has shed her blood for France,” cried Lucie. “That wound was caused by the enemy.” “_Ma foi_, what a fantasie!” cried Paulette. “I assure you, monsieur, that my hurt was caused simply by a falling wall. I was passing; the wall gives way, the brick descends upon my head; that is all.” “Ah, but the falling wall, that came from the bombs of the enemy,” persisted Lucie. “Is it not, monsieur, that she has suffered for France?” “Most surely,” he answered. “She has been wounded, though indirectly, by the enemy, and so is to be honored as a soldier.” “There,” exclaimed Lucie, “it is as I said, Paulette.” “La la,” she responded, “this sort of argument is a thing to make one laugh, and quite aside from our business. Where is it we go, monsieur, without wasting more words or time?”