Читать книгу Little Jeanne of France - Brandeis Madeline - Страница 6

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.