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  Little Jeanne of France

  LITTLE JEANNE OF FRANCE]

  LITTLE JEANNE _of_ FRANCE

  BY MADELINE BRANDEIS

  _Producer of the Motion Pictures_

  "The Little Indian Weaver" "The Wee Scotch Piper" "The Little Dutch Tulip Girl" "The Little Swiss Wood Carver"

  Distributed by Pathe Exchange, Inc., New York City

  _Photographic Illustrations made in France by the Author_

  GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK _by arrangement with the A. Flanagan Company_

  COPYRIGHT, 1929, BY A. FLANAGAN COMPANY

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  PREFACE

  When I began to write these stories about children of all lands I hadjust returned from Europe whither I journeyed with Marie and Ref. Maybeyou don't know Marie and Ref. I'll introduce them: Please meet Marie, myvery little daughter, and Ref, my very big reflex camera.

  These two are my helpers. Marie helps by being a little girl who knowswhat other little girls like and by telling me; and Ref helps bysnapping pictures of everything interesting that Marie and I see on ourtravels. I couldn't get along without them.

  Several years have gone by since we started our work together and Marieis a bigger girl--but Ref hasn't changed one bit. Ref hasn't changed anymore than my interest in writing these books for you. And I hope that_you_ hope that I'll never change, because I want to keep on writinguntil we'll have no more countries to write about--unless, of course,some one discovers a new country.

  Even if a new country isn't discovered, we'll find foreign children totalk about--maybe the children in Mars! Who knows? Nobody. Not evenMarie--and Marie usually knows about most things. That's the reason why,you see, though I sign myself

  Signature of Madeline Brandeis]

  I am really only Marie's Mother.

  DEDICATION

  To every child of every land, Little sister, little brother, As in this book your lives unfold, May you learn to love each other.

  CONTENTS

  Page Chapter I Madame Villard 11

  Chapter II Paul 18

  Chapter III To the Front! 25

  Chapter IV On to Paris 32

  Chapter V Suzanne 39

  Chapter VI Jeanne 52

  Chapter VII Major d'Artrot 64

  Chapter VIII The Guignol 78

  Chapter IX An Adventure in the Bois 90

  Chapter X The Live Puppet 101

  Chapter XI Little Spoiled Margot 108

  Chapter XII At Auntie Sue's Shop 114

  Chapter XIII Come and Play 127

  Chapter XIV A Drive Through Paris 135

  Chapter XV Jeanne and Margot 148

  Chapter XVI "I Want to Play" 156

  Chapter XVII A Call for Help 168

  Chapter XVIII Margot's Story 179

  THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE (Page 90)]

  Little Jeanne of France

  CHAPTER I

  MADAME VILLARD

  "The baby is a dear little dark-haired girl, Madame Villard(v[=e]-laer')," said the nurse.

  Madame Villard came forward, and her face expressed the joy in herheart.

  It was the twilight hour. Paris was busily honking and tooting outsidethe broad windows of Madame Villard's apartment.

  The apartment looked out upon one of Paris' finest avenues. And Parishas many fine avenues. This had been Madame Villard's home for manyyears.

  THE APARTMENT ON AVENUE CHAMPS ELYSEES WHERE MADAMEVILLARD LIVED]

  It was here she had raised her family--her boy and her girl. It was thesame girl whose "dear little, dark-haired baby" had just come into theworld.

  "May I--may I see her?" asked Madame Villard softly.

  The nurse led her into the room, and the grandmother looked withtear-dimmed eyes upon this first grandchild.

  Baby Margot (maer'-g[=o]) was Madame's first grandchild. At least, thatis what Madame thought. Little did Madame Villard know that at this samemoment another grandchild of hers was opening wondering brown eyes uponthe same world!

  The same world and the same country, France! Yet how different wasthis other grandchild's world from the world of little Margot!

  Little soft, comfy Margot in her billowy pink and lace down! Littlesoft, cuddly Margot, whom Grandmother took into her arms that day! Allthe while, she did not know about the other grandchild.

  That other grandchild did not have soft billowy pink and lace pillows onwhich to rest her head. That other grandchild did not have agrandmother's loving arms into which she could cuddle down.

  That other grandchild--but I must not talk of her. I must talk ofMargot. For Margot was all that Grandmother Villard could talk about oreven think of that day.

  Her own little daughter's daughter! It was so wonderful to think ofMargot's being here. So wonderful for poor Madame Villard, whose onlyson Paul was fighting at the front in the Great War.

  When the war had started, Paul had gone to fight for France. Now it wasmany months since Madame had heard from her soldier boy.

  Soon after Paul had joined the army, he had met and married Jeanne(j[=e]n) in a tiny village of France. Paul had written to his mother inParis, telling her of his marriage.

  A QUAINT STREET IN A LITTLE FRENCH VILLAGE FAR FROM THEROAR OF CITIES]

  "You will love Jeanne," wrote Paul. "When this war is over, I shallbring her to Paris."

  But the war was not over, and Jeanne had never been brought to Paris.Madame Villard did not hear from her boy again.

  She did not know that on this happy day, while she held her littlegrandchild Margot in her arms, Paul's little girl was opening her browneyes upon a different-looking world.

  In a sad, war-stricken, bleak little village far from Paris, this othergrandchild was born.

  CHAPTER II

  PAUL

  Jeanne's baby was as beautiful as little Margot, though she did not lieupon lacy pillows in a Paris apartment.

  Jeanne held the child tightly in her arms, as she rocked back and forthon a broken chair, and as she rocked she looked out upon the poor,little village street. Jeanne was a troubled young mother.

  Paul had been at the front for many weeks now. He did not even know thatlittle Jeanne was born. If only Paul would come back to the village!

  There was talk of an invasion. Many small towns of France were beinginvaded and burned by the enemy. Would this little town be next?

  Each day the villagers asked themselves this question and lived interror. Many had already started to tramp toward Paris. Many weredeserting the village.

  But Jeanne could not go. There was little Jeanne now. And even if shecould have gone, she would never have left until her Paul had come back.

  Each day a letter went to Paul at the front. Each day Jeanne trembled atthe postman's footsteps outside her door.

  But no news. Only whispers and more whispers of invasion--invasion!

  Oh, if Paul would only come back!

  Jeanne rocked her ba
by.

  The invasion came. It was one of the last invasions before the Great Warcame to an end. The enemy burned the little town to the ground.

  The great march of the refugees had started. The roads to Paris werealive with homeless people--struggling, homeless humanity, with only thehope of reaching Paris alive.

  The village--Paul's village--was a desolate place. As the troop ofFrench soldiers returned after the invasion and marched into it, therewas not a soul to be seen. Among those marching French soldiers camePaul.

  A GROUP OF TYPICAL THATCH ROOFED HOUSES IN A LITTLEFRENCH VILLAGE]

  To the scene of his home he ran. Everything--everything was in ruins!His house! Gone! His wife!

  "Jeanne! Jeanne!" Paul's voice was a shriek.

  "Look, my son, in the cellar. Many of them hid in cellars for daysbefore." It was a kind-faced old man speaking.

  The distracted Paul dashed into the underground stone cave and calledagain, "Jeanne, oh, Jeanne!"

  A little sound came from a corner in the dark, damp cellar. The soldierstopped suddenly, and his ears became those of a forest animal, sosharp, so alert was he.

  "My little one! Jeanne!" he called.

  He struck a match. His heart nearly stopped. His Jeanne was not there.But something moved in the corner--something small and white.

  "A baby!" Paul gasped.

  His voice had dropped to a husky whisper. He lifted the small, whitebundle. It was a baby--a tiny young baby!

  The soldier carried the child out into the light. The little one touchedhis cheek with a pink hand.

  "A baby!" breathed Paul, as he held this bit of humanity close in hisarms. "And my Jeanne! We were to have had one like this soon."

  Then Paul noticed something around the baby's neck. A small locket hadbeen tied around her neck with a piece of faded ribbon.

  With trembling fingers, Paul opened the locket. The soldier brushed hishand across his eyes, for he could not believe what he saw. Inside thelocket was his picture!

  CHAPTER III

  TO THE FRONT!

  Paul sat there and rocked the baby--his baby! He sat and rocked littleJeanne, much as his wife had rocked her before that terrible invasion.

  Now his wife was gone. Little Jeanne's mother had not been able toescape as had many of the other villagers. She was dead. Weak andundernourished, the poor woman had been unable to withstand hardshipsand suffering in a cold, damp cellar.

  The invasion had killed little Jeanne's mother. Paul alone now remainedto care for this helpless mite.

  Paul was a troubled, frantic soldier. He would be called back to thefront at any moment. What would he do with the baby?

  Just then he heard the bugle and the call to arms: "To the front."

  A scurrying soldier passed him and called out, "Make haste. To thefront!"

  Paul could not move. The baby was asleep in his arms. Little, trustingbaby--his baby! The soldier dropped his head in the folds of littleJeanne's dress and sobbed.

  A slight tap upon his shoulder brought Paul's head erect. Bending overhim was the same old man. It was the kind-faced little peasant who hadspoken to him at the cellar door.

  "Come, my son," he said, "You are a soldier of France! Would that my oldbody could fight in your place! But it is you who must go. France needsyou, my son."

  He slowly helped the soldier to his feet, as the baby in his arms slepton.

  Paul saw the light of goodness shining out of the old eyes. With a surgeof joy in his heart, he held out his child.

  "Oh, my friend," he cried, "if you will take my baby, I can go. I canthen go and fight for France. But never, never could I leave her alone,even for France! Take her, friend, and guard her with your life."

  A TYPICAL HAMLET IN A BEAUTIFUL SECTION OF FRANCE]

  The old peasant's eyes grew troubled. For he knew not what he, apoverty-stricken, weakened old man might do with an infant, here in thissmoldering ruin of a village. But he held out his arms.

  "Yes, I shall take care of her," he promised.

  "With your life, my friend," repeated Paul. "Here," he added, as hepulled from his pockets handfuls of small coins. "All I have. Take it.Take her to Paris--to my mother. Wait!"

  And Paul then wrote a note--a scrawled, jumbled note--to his mother,Madame Villard, in Paris.

  "I am telling her you are coming with my baby--with little Jeanne," hesaid. "Take her to the address I write on this paper. See! I pin it toher little skirt. Hurry, my friend. Take her. Take her. Adieu, adieu, mylittle Jeanne!"

  The last words were heard afar off, as the father of little Jeannejoined his regiment. Then he marched to the front, into the face of acruel battle.

  The old man stood still and watched the soldier disappearing. He andthis baby were the only remaining inhabitants in this town.

  The rest were marching, marching, on their way to Paris. He, too, mustmarch to Paris.

  An old man with a baby!

  It was a long way, but he had given his word to a soldier of France.Did this not make of him a soldier, too?

  The old body stiffened, and he stood erect. His hand slowly saluted thedeparting troops. He, too, was a soldier.

  He looked at the address which Paul had pinned to the skirtof little Jeanne: Madame Villard, Avenue Champs Elysees(shaen'z[=a]-l[=e]-z[=a]'), Paris.

  Paris? Why, yes; he could walk to Paris. He was a soldier! Marchingrefugees from other villages were constantly passing. The old man joinedthe peasant procession.

  On his lips were the words, "On, on, on to Paris! On, on, on!"

  And little Jeanne thought it was a lullaby and slept.

  CHAPTER IV

  ON TO PARIS

  On trudged the old man. In his arms slept little Jeanne. She was ashappy as Margot that day. Margot lay among the sweet-smelling cushionsof her baby carriage and was rolled along the smooth walks of Parisparks.

  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. Hewatched the rest of the refugees passing him by.

  There were families with many children. There were men and womencarrying mattresses and clothing, pots and pans. There were dogsrunning along and barking.

  They all passed the old man. Each one had another with whom to walk. Butthe old man walked alone.

  It grew very hard--this walking. He rested often, and each time it washarder to rise and to start the walk again. Only his promise to asoldier of France kept his old body going. At last he dropped heavily atthe 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 caredfor. 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 hishorny hand.

  "Little one, I am finished," he whispered. "I have tried so hard, butParis 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 tothe sky. She watched the trees as they swayed back and forth.

  "This world is a pleasant place," it would seem the tiny girl wasthinking.

  VERY OLD STONE HOUSES IN A LITTLE VILLAGE OF FRANCE]

  For a long time the old man slept. He was awakened by the sound of aclear voice. He looked into the sad face of a young woman in a blackshawl. 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; giveher to me," said the woman.

  She took little Jeanne in her arms. The old man's eyes searched her faceto try to fathom it. He tried to find there what he hoped to see:kindness. But all he saw was sadness.

  Suzanne Moreau (m[=o]-r[=o]') was one of the many refugees who had fledfrom her invaded village. She was
one of the few in that long line whomarched alone. Suzanne had always lived alone, as long as she couldremember. Her life had been a lonely one. She had been a dressmaker inthe small town where she had lived.

  Everyone there had known her as Auntie Sue. She was Auntie Sue tochildren and grown-ups alike.

  The old man tried to fathom Suzanne as he looked deep into her eyes andwatched her wrap little Jeanne carefully in her shawl.

  "I am quite alone," she said. "I am strong and shall make the marcheasily. 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: AvenueChamps Elysees, Madame Villard."

  She nodded her head. She smiled at him and was off.

  CHAPTER V

  SUZANNE

  It was a month since the day when Madame Villard had received twoletters. Just a month had passed since the silver-haired lady and herdaughter had pored over two such different letters.

  One was a scrawl--Paul's. He wrote that his baby was on her way to Paristo her grandmother. It was a dirty, scrawly note, but full of hope tothe two who read it.

  The next letter, neat and precise, was from the government. Before theyopened it, the two women knew: Paul's little one was now an orphan. Fora month, how that mother and sister waited!

  With Madame Villard lived her daughter and her daughter's husband. Theywere the parents of Baby Margot.