Читать книгу Tom Slade with the Boys Over There - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 4

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“But how could we hear from him now, Florette, any better than before?” the old man asked.

“America is our friend now,” the girl answered, “and so good things must happen.”

“Indeed, great things will happen, dear Florette,” her father laughed, “and our beloved Alsace will be restored and you shall sing the Marseillaise again. Vive l’Amerique! She has come to us at last!”

“Sh-h-h,” warned Madame Leteur, looking about; “because America has joined us is no reason we should not be careful. See how our neighbor Le Farge fared for speaking in the village but yesterday. It is glorious news, but we must be careful.”

“What did neighbor Le Farge say, mamma?”

“Sh-h-h. The news of it is not allowed. He said that some one told him that when the American General Pershing came to France, he stood by the grave of Lafayette and said, ‘Lafayette, we are here.’”

“Ah, Lafayette, yes!” said the old man, his voice shaking with pride.

“But we must not even know there is a great army of Americans here. We must know nothing. We must be blind and deaf,” said Madame Leteur, looking about her apprehensively.

“America will bring us many good things, my sweet Florette,” said her father more cautiously, “and she will bring triumph to our gallant France. But we must have patience. How can she send us letters from Armand, my dear? How can she send letters to Germany, her enemy?”

“Then we shall never hear of him till the war is over?” the girl sighed. “Oh, it is my fault he went away! It was my heedless song and I cannot forgive myself.”

“The Marseillaise is not a heedless song, Florette,” said old Pierre, “and when our brave boy struck the Prussian beast——”

“Sh-h-h,” whispered Madame Leteur quickly.

“There is no one,” said the old man, peering cautiously into the bushes; “when he struck the Prussian beast, it was only what his father’s son must do. Come, cheer up! Think of those noble words of America’s general, ‘Lafayette, we are here.’ If we have not letters from our son, still America has come to us. Is not this enough? She will strike the Prussian beast——”

“Sh-h-h!”

“There is no one, I tell you. She will strike the Prussian beast with her mighty arm harder than our poor noble boy could do with his young hand. Is it not so?”

The girl looked wistfully into the dusk. “I thought we would hear from him when we had the great news from America.”

“That is because you are a silly child, my sweet Florette, and think that America is a magician. We must be patient. We do not even know all that her great president said. We are fed with lies——”

“Sh-h-h!”

“And how can we hear from Armand, my dear, when the Prussians do not even let us know what America’s president said? All will be well in good time.”

“He is dead,” said the girl, uncomforted. “I have had a dream that he is dead. And it is I that killed him.”

“This is a silly child,” said old Pierre.

“America is full of Prussians—spies,” said the girl, “and they have his name on a list. They have killed him. They are murderers!”

“Sh-h-h,” warned her mother again.

“Yes, they are murderers,” said old Pierre, “but this is a silly child to talk so. We have borne much silently. Can we not be a little patient now?”

“I hate them!” sobbed the girl, abandoning all caution. “They drove him away and we will see him no more,—my brother—Armand!”

“Hush, my daughter,” her mother pleaded. “Listen! I heard a footstep. They are spying and have heard.”

For a moment neither spoke and there was no sound but the girl’s quick breaths as she tried to control herself. Then there was a slight rustling in the shrubbery and they waited in breathless suspense.

“I knew it,” whispered Madame; “we are always watched. Now it has come.”

Still they waited, fearfully. Another sound, and old Pierre rose, pushed his rustic chair from him and stood with a fine, soldierly air, waiting. His wife was trembling pitiably and Florette, her eyes wide with grief and terror, watched the dark bushes like a frightened animal.

Suddenly the leaves parted and they saw a strange disheveled figure. For a moment it paused, uncertain, then looked stealthily about and emerged into the open. The stranger was hatless and barefoot and his whole appearance was that of exhaustion and fright. When he spoke it was in a strange language and spasmodically as if he had been running hard.

“Leteur?” he asked, looking from one to the other; “the name—Leteur? I can’t speak French,” he added, somewhat bewildered and clutching an upright of the arbor.

“What do you wish here?” old Pierre demanded in French, never relaxing his military air.

The stranger leaned wearily against the arbor, panting, and even in the dusk they could see that he was young and very ragged, and with the whiteness of fear and apprehension in his face and his staring eyes.

“You German? French?” he panted.

“We are French,” said Florette, rising. “I can speak ze Anglaise a leetle.”

“You are not German?” the visitor repeated as if relieved.

“Only we are Zherman subjects, yess. Our name ees Leteur.”

“I am—American. My name—is Tom Slade. I escaped from the prison across there. My—my pal escaped with me——”

The girl looked pityingly at him and shook her head while her parents listened curiously. “We are sorry,” she said, “so sorry; but you were not wise to escape. We cannot shelter you. We are suspect already.”

“I have brought you news of Armand,” said Tom. “I can’t—can’t talk. We ran——Here, take this. He—he gave it to me—on the ship.”

He handed Florette a little iron button, which she took with a trembling hand, watching him as he clutched the arbor post.

“From Armand? You know heem?” she asked, amazed. “You are American?”

“He’s American, too,” said Tom, “and he’s with General Pershing in France. We’re goin’ to join him if you’ll help us.”

For a moment the girl stared straight at him, then turning to her father she poured out such a volley of French as would have staggered the grim authorities of poor Alsace. What she said the fugitive could not imagine, but presently old Pierre stepped forward and, throwing his one arm about the neck of the young American, kissed him several times with great fervor.

Tom Slade was not used to being kissed by anybody and he was greatly abashed. However, it might have been worse. What would he ever have done if the girl who spoke English in such a hesitating, pretty way had taken it into her head to kiss him?