Pierre was bursting with curiosity to know about the Battle of the Marne.  Not another boy of his acquaintance had a wounded father, and though his opportunities for seeing his friends had been few, he had already done a good deal of boasting; and was pointed out by other boys on the street as a person of special distinction.  “Tell me about the battle, Father,” he begged.

His Father lifted his tired eyes to a statue of Jeanne d’Arc, which was in plain sight from where he lay.  “Well, my boy,” he said after a pause, “there is much I should not wish you to know, but this I will tell you.  On the day the battle turned, the watchword of the Army was Jeanne d’Arc.  Our soldiers sprang to the attack with her name upon their lips, and some have sworn to me that they saw her ride before us into battle on her white charger, carrying in her hand the very banner which you see there upon the altar.  I do not know whether or not it is true, but certainly the victory was with us, and I for my part find it easy to be lieve that our blessed Saint Jeanne has not forgotten France.”  He raised himself a little on his elbow and pointed to a place not far distant in the nave.  “There,” he said, “is the very spot upon which she knelt while her king was being crowned here in our Cathedral after she had driven our enemies from French soil and had given him his throne!  The happiest moments of her life were here!  What place should be revisited by her pure spirit if not Rheims?  My children, I wish you every day to pray that she may come again to deliver France!” Exhausted by emotion and by the effort he had made, he sank back upon the straw and closed his eyes.

Pierrette took his hand.  “Dear papa, she said, “every day we will pray to her as you say, and give thanks to the Bon Dieu that your life has been spared to us.  If only your poor leg—­” she stopped, overcome by tears.

Her Father opened his eyes and smiled.  “Ah, little one, what is a leg more or less;—­or a life either for that matter,—­when our France is in danger?” he said.  “Is it not so, Pierre?”

Pierre gulped.  “France can have all of my legs!” he cried, in a burst of patriotism.  “And when I’m big enough, I’m going to dig a hole in the ground and put in millions of tons of dynamite and blow up the whole of Germany!  That’s what I’m going to do!”

His Father’s eyes twinkled.  “It seems a long while to wait,” he said, “because now you are only nine, you see.”

Just then their Mother came toward the little group.  “Magpies!” she cried, " it seems that you are talking my patient to death.  Run along now to Madame Coudert.”  At the Cathedral entrance she kissed them, and then stood for a moment to watch them as they hurried down the street out of sight.

VI.  THE BURNING OF THE CATHEDRAL

On the evening of the 18th of September, Mother Meraut was late in leaving the Cathedral, and it was nearly dark when she reached Madame Coudert’s door.  Pierrette sat on the steps waiting for her, with Fifine, the cat, in her arms.  Madame Coudert was knitting, as usual, and Pierre was trying to teach the little raveled-out dog to stand on his hind legs.  As their Mother appeared, the children sprang to meet her.