Little Jeanne of France

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 had taken care of little Margot from the day of her birth. Starry-eyed Baby Margot was Grandmother Villard's charge – and a joyous charge to the old lady. But despite the happiness of her Margot, the heart of Madame Villard yearned for that other wee one – her son's little orphaned daughter.

She waited longingly for Paul's child to be brought to her. She waited until she could wait no longer. Then she went out in search of little Jeanne.

Madame Villard traveled to many villages in her search. She even asked the government to help her.

She tried so hard to speed the little one's arrival. But she could not. The child was never brought to her.

And now, to-day, a month having elapsed, Madame Villard was again preparing to motor through the country to search. She intended to stop at a little graveyard in the Argonne (är-gō̍n´) and pray.

And while Madame Villard waited thus for little Jeanne, Suzanne Moreau was bringing the baby to Paris.

On the tramp Suzanne had found the child a sweet and tender thing. Little Jeanne had hardly ever cried. She was satisfied and sleepy, or gurgling and gay.

Her life had been a rough one and her feedings irregular and sometimes insufficient. Still the baby had seemed happy, and Suzanne had smiled a great deal more than she had ever before smiled in her life.

Before the march was over, little Jeanne was the only child Suzanne had ever kissed.

For a long time after reaching Paris, Suzanne Moreau's only thought was to tend this baby for whom she had promised to care.

She expected to take the baby to the home where it belonged. But her first thought was to give the child a few days' good care and food before giving her up.

It was a thought which Suzanne would never have admitted was selfish. But the truth was that little Jeanne's baby fingers had so tenderly wound themselves about the heart of Suzanne Moreau that already the thought of parting with her was unbearable. A few days passed. Then a week, and then more days.

"I should. I should," sighed Suzanne, as she watched the little girl sucking contentedly on her bottle.

Then when the bottle was emptied, Baby Jeanne lifted her two pink hands.

In her arms Suzanne rocked the baby back and forth and murmured, "No, no, my little one, ma chérie (mä shĕr-ē´, which means "my dear" in French), I cannot give you up. Not yet."

This went on for some time. At last one night Suzanne determined to go to that address on the Avenue Champs Elysées. She went alone. She left the child in the care of a woman with whom she boarded.

Before the tall stone building, Suzanne stood and marveled. It seemed a palace to the little village dressmaker. How could she keep this child from a home like that? To-morrow, yes, to-morrow, she would take Jeanne to her rightful home.

As she turned to leave, a big motor car drew up at the curb, and a black figure stepped out. Madame Villard had returned from another unsuccessful search. She was returning to her daughter and to little Margot, discouraged, disappointed, and heart-sick.

Little did she know that the slight figure turning the corner was Suzanne Moreau. Little did she dream that this woman turning the corner was hurrying back to her own grandchild, who slept in a poor little Paris boarding house.

Suzanne began to arrange the few little clothes she had bought for Jeanne. She made a bundle. Then she took from her drawer the locket which the child had worn about her neck. She opened it.

Paul's face seemed to be smiling at her. Often before she had opened this locket, but never had the soldier face seemed so happy as now. Suzanne knew why. It was because she was going to take Jeanne to her place – her rightful home.

Her heart was fluttering and her hands were shaking as she put the locket about the child's neck. Then she sat by the little cradle. Before she knew it, the tears were falling down her cheeks.

Why did she care this way? Suzanne asked herself. She had lived alone for many years. For many years she had had nothing to love. Why could she not go on?

Why must this tiny bit of life, sleeping so sweetly before her, make all this difference and make her cry?

Jeanne stirred. The little pink hands went up. It was a gesture Suzanne had come to love, to wait for, to thrill at. Slowly she raised Jeanne from the cradle and held her.