Part 33 (1/2)
”My little one--”
”Say, Maman, that you are glad.”
”So young, Jean.”
”But old enough to fight when they need me. Old enough to fight for France!”
”My baby--”
”You will not grieve, Maman.”
She reached up and caught his face between her two hands and drew it down and kissed him on the mouth.
”Ah, Jean!”
”And say, how do I look?” He turned around and around in front of them.
”But, Angele, fetch the lamp quickly. You cannot see in this dark. You cannot see me.”
The girl laughed a bit uncertainly, and then she went quickly, rus.h.i.+ng into the next room.
The woman gripped hold of the boy's hand. His fingers grasped hers.
”Pet.i.te Maman.”
”Mon Jean--just--a--moment--still--so.”
They stood there silent and very close to each other, in the room crowded with moving, splotching shadows. The girl came back through the curtain, a lighted lamp between her two hands. The flicker of it spread broadly into her eager, anxious face. The glow of it trickled before her and widened through the room. The shadows stuck to the walls in the corners and rocked up against the ceiling, black among the uneven streaks of yellow light.
”Now, Angele. Now, Maman. Put it there on the table, Angele. No, hold it higher. Like that. Keep your hands steady, Angele, or how can Maman see?
Such a miserable lamp! Does not my uniform look magnificent? I am the real poilu, hein? Something to be proud of, Maman?”
”The real poilu?” The girl questioned softly. ”The grandchild of the real poilu, maybe.”
”She mocks me, Maman.”
”Be quiet, Angele.”
”I do not mock, Maman; but I will not have his head turned. The poor little cabbage!”
”See, Maman. She will not stop. Tell her that I fight for France.”
For a moment the woman hesitated. They could hear the deep breath she took.
”For France. And for something else, my little son.”
With great care the girl placed the lamp on the table.
”Something else, Maman?”