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Updated: May 7, 2025
I knew you were French on account of the fleur-de-lis on the end of your flagpole " "And ze button yess?" the old man urged, interrupting him. Tom told him the whole story of Frenchy and the Leteurs, and of how he had come by his little talisman. "I have fought in zat regiment," the old man said, "many years before you are born. I have seen Alsace lost yess.
He saw himself now, as Archer had depicted him, in the silly role of a "story book hero" and he felt ashamed. He knew that General Pershing would not have sent him rescuing girls, and that the best way he could help France, and even the Leteurs, was to hurry up and get into the trenches where he belonged. Yes, Archer was right.
They could look down across the marshy meadows they had crossed to the trellised vineyard of the Leteurs, looking orderly and symmetrical in the distance like a two-storied field, and beyond that the massive gables of the gray, forsaken house. They could see the whole neighboring country in panorama. Through the long, daylight hours Tom studied the country carefully.
There, safe from the haunts of men, or at least with timely warning of any hamlets nestling in those sombre depths, he and his comrade might press southward toward that promised land, the Swiss border. Perhaps his memory of the Leteurs had something to do with this. Perhaps he had just the boyish feeling that it would change their luck.
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