Part 10 (1/2)
”Already so many in mourning!” thought the girl. ”What will it be later?”
”First the b.u.t.ter and eggs and cheese! This way, Mam'selle!”
They wormed their way between the great yellow wagons unloading huge crates of eggs and giant cheeses. The smell of b.u.t.ter made Judy think of Chatsworth and the dairy where she had helped Caroline churn on her memorable visit to the Browns. Ah me! How glad she would be to see them again. And Kent! She had not let herself think of Kent lately. He must be angry with her for not taking his advice and listening to his entreaties to go back to the United States with him. He had not written at all and he must have been home several weeks. Maybe the letter had miscarried, but other letters had come lately; and he might even have cabled her. He certainly seemed indifferent to her welfare, as now that the war had broken out, he had not even inquired as to her safety or her whereabouts; not even let her know whether or not the job in New York had materialized.
She was awakened from her musings by her old friend, who had completed his bargaining for cheese, b.u.t.ter and eggs and now was proceeding to the fish market.
”I must buy much fish. It is Friday, you remember, and since the war started, religion has become the style again in France, and now fish, and only fish, must be eaten on Friday. There are those that say that the war will help the country by making us good again.”
And so, in a far corner of the cart, well away from the susceptible b.u.t.ter and cheese, many fish were piled up, fenced off from the rest of the produce by a wall of huge black mussels in a tangle of sea weed.
”Well, there are fish enough in this market to regenerate the whole world, I should think,” laughed Judy.
The stalls were laden with them and row after row of scaly monsters hung from huge hooks in the walls. Men, women and boys were scaling and cleaning fish all along the curbings.
”Soon there will be only women and boys for the work,” thought Judy sadly, ”and maybe it will not be so very long before there will be only women.”
Cabbages and cauliflowers were bought next (cauliflowers that Puddenhead Wilson says are only cabbages been to college); Brussels sprouts, too; and spinach enough to furnish red blood for the whole army, Judy thought; then chickens, turkeys and grouse; a great smoked beef tongue, and a hog head for souse. The little green wagon was running over now and its rather rickety wheels creaked complainingly.
Old Tricot and Judy started homeward at as rapid a rate as the load would allow. Judy insisted upon helping push, and indeed her services were quite necessary over the rough cobbles. When they reached the smooth asphalt, she told Pere Tricot she would leave him for a moment and stop at the American Club in the hope of letters awaiting there for her.
How sweet and fresh she looked as she waved her hand at the old man! Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes s.h.i.+ning, and her expression so nave and happy that she looked like a little child.
”Ah, gentile, gentile!” he murmured. His old heart had gone out to this brave, charming American girl. ”And to think of her being friends with Madame the Marquise!” he thought. ”That will be a nut for the good wife and Marie to crack.”
He pushed his cart slowly along the asphalt, rather missing the st.u.r.dy strength that Judy had put into the work. Then he sat on a bench to rest awhile, one of those nice benches that Paris dots her thoroughfares with and one misses so on coming back to United States.
Paris was well awake now and bustling. The streets were full of soldiers. Old women with their carts laden with chrysanthemums were trudging along to take their stands at the corners. The air was filled with the pungent odors of their wares. Old Tricot stretched himself:
”I must be moving! There is much food to be cooked to-day. It is time my Mam'selle was coming along. Ah, there she is!” He recognized the jaunty blue serge jacket and pretty little velour sport hat that Judy always knew at which angle to place on her fluffy brown hair. ”But how slowly she is walking! And where are her roses? Her head is bent down like some poor French woman who has bad news from the trenches.”
CHAPTER IX.
THE AMERICAN MAIL.
Judy had, clasped in her arms, a package of mail, unopened except for the letter on top, which was the one that poor, brave Mrs. Brown had written her. She had kept throughout the letter the same gallant spirit of belief in her son's safety, but Judy could not take that view.
”Gone! Gone! and all because of poor miserable, no-account me!” her heart cried out in its anguish, but she shed no tear and made no sound.
Her face, glowing with health and spirits only a few minutes ago, was now as pale as a ghost and her eyes had lost their sparkle.
Pere Tricot hastened towards her as she came slowly down the street.
”My dear little girl, what is it?”
”He is drowned and all for me--just my stubbornness!”
”Who? Your father?”
”No!”