Little Jeanne of France

The baby's hands gently touched her cheeks. One little hand was patting a wet, wet cheek.

Then it stopped, and a soft head slowly sank upon Suzanne's breast. Jeanne was asleep.

Suzanne sat staring ahead of her. The baby had made a decision for Suzanne.

Cruelly and unfairly, in her mind Suzanne blamed little Jeanne for the decision she made that night. But her torn heart could not have stood the blame. She knew and felt only one thing.

To the sleeping child she cried, "I cannot, cannot give you up, my little Jeanne. Never, never!"

The locket with the soldier's picture was put away under lock and key. And Madame Villard continued to wait for her grandchild.

CHAPTER VI

JEANNE

Jeanne grew under the loving and tender care of Suzanne. Never once did Suzanne approach the stately apartment house on the Avenue Champs Elysées. Never once did she allow Jeanne to go in that direction.

Several years passed. Jeanne was now a tall girl. But still Auntie Sue had a terrible feeling about that apartment house.

Suzanne was still known as Auntie Sue. And between the poor little dressmaker and Jeanne, Auntie Sue's Shop had grown up in Paris.

Paris, you know, is the place from which your mother's or auntie's or grandmother's most fashionable clothes come. Nearly everyone who visits Paris buys a Parisian gown.

The French are well dressed. The French dressmakers know well how to cut and fit and sew.

Then, too, when little ones go to Paris with their mothers, they, too, are fitted with dresses and hats and coats made by the Parisian dressmakers.

Auntie Sue fitted many, many children. She fitted children who lived in Paris, also children who came from America and Spain and Italy and Germany and from other parts of the world.

For Auntie Sue's Shop was well known. It was known because, for one thing, Auntie Sue was clever and could make beautiful children's clothes.

It was known for another reason, and perhaps a better one. That reason was Jeanne!

Jeanne put on all of Auntie's little models. She showed them to the people who came to buy clothes for their children.

Jeanne walked about the pretty little room, with its dainty show-cases and Parisian dolls and model coats and hats. She walked about the room and wore the clothes that Auntie Sue had made.

And when the children's mothers came to buy, they said, "Isn't that a beautiful little coat?" or, "Doesn't she look sweet in that little dress?"

Jeanne always looked sweet and pretty in everything she wore. Jeanne walked very straight and held her head high and smiled at all the people. She seemed to belong in those clothes.

So every mother thought that her child would look as well as Jeanne looked. Of course some of them did, but not all. Jeanne was known throughout Paris – throughout "child-and-mother-Paris" – as the "Little Model."

You may think that she became haughty and proud because so many people knew about her and came to watch her. But this was not the case at all.

Jeanne never thought of things like that. She was too busy ever to think of such things. While she loved to help Auntie Sue, it was hard work, and often Auntie Sue worried.

"Ma chérie," she would say to Jeanne as she stroked her silky brown curls, "you are happy; are you not? You do not mind the work – the hard, hard work? Ah, Jeanne, it is not pleasant sometimes, I know."

And this was true. For when many, many mothers and children came, Jeanne had to walk back and forth, back and forth, through the room. She had to show the silken dresses, the velvet coats, the little fluffy bonnets and hats. And she always had to smile and answer people's questions to the tune of that smile.

Then when changing behind the screen in Auntie's tiny dressing room, she had to be careful with the clothes – very careful. If lace should tear or a frock become soiled, Auntie would not be able to sell it. It was a careful little girl who changed behind that screen.

But Jeanne would always answer Auntie as she smiled into her worried eyes, "No, no, dear Auntie Sue. Never am I sad. Never do I mind the work. It is play, you know. All the other little children envy me!"

This also was true. Many children did think what fun it would be to wear all those lovely clothes and step about that gay little shop.

Some even went home and tried to imitate Jeanne. They thought it was fun. They did not know it was hard, hard work.

Jeanne answered Auntie Sue this way and really meant what she said.

Still Jeanne often wished for the days to be much longer. Jeanne wanted to play.

It was all right for those other children to play at being Jeanne. But really to be Jeanne was not play!

When those other children wearied of their game of being Jeanne they stopped. Jeanne could never stop. And there was never any time left for her to play.

Auntie Sue often noticed that Jeanne's eyes held a wistful look. Auntie Sue mistook that wistfulness and thought Jeanne was longing to possess the beautiful clothes she showed.

She thought that Jeanne was sad because, each day, she would have to take off those lovely clothes and put on her own simple little dresses.

It was only natural for Auntie to suppose this because Jeanne loved and caressed each new garment that Auntie made. She seemed always so happy to put them on.

But here is a secret: Jeanne never once thought about those clothes after she took them off. She liked her little gingham dresses just as well.

In fact, Jeanne would not have cared one bit what she wore, if only she could have played. Auntie Sue did not know that.

CHAPTER VII

MAJOR d'ARTROT

One morning Major d'Artrot (där-trō) received a letter from an old friend. It was a good friend: Madame Villard. Madame Villard wrote that she expected to spend a night at the Major's inn.

A tiny tumbled farm was Major d'Artrot's Inn. Before the war it had been his fine and prosperous home. But the Major had been obliged to turn his home into a hotel. For the war had made him a poor man.

Fighting and scenes of horror had taken place on that peaceful farm. It had been occupied by the Germans. Later a terrible battle, one of the famous battles of the Argonne, had been fought there.

In the Major's garden stands the "Bloody Tree." The name is enough to tell what happened beneath its tall branches. A pole with wires still stands outside the Major's house. It is a telegraph pole raised by the American soldiers during the war. When the war was over, people came to see the Major's farm. People were curious, interested. There was the cellar where some poor souls had lived for weeks, listening to the booming of the battles in the woods near-by.

There were the German helmets captured during that last battle. There were many, many reasons why travelers were drawn to Major d'Artrot's farm. So Major d'Artrot turned his house into a hotel. One of his dearest friends was Madame Villard. She had helped make life easier for the Major and for his little brood.

During the long years following the death of her son, the Major had tried to help the stricken mother in her search for her lost granddaughter.

He had at last gathered for her the information that on that famous march an old peasant had been seen with a baby. Some one had seen him. But he had fallen on the weary march. They knew that.

But they did not know about the baby. Nobody could tell Madame Villard what had happened to the baby.

To-day the Major received Madame Villard's letter.