The Story of Silk Part 7

"What a lot you know, Josef!" murmured Marie, astonished.

Josef laughed.

"I just happened to see that in a book your father gave me," he said.

"It interested me because it told of something I wanted to learn about.

I don't care for reading as a rule. Most books are about things I never heard of and are no use to me."

"But don't you like to learn about new things?" inquired Marie.

"Why, no, I don't think I do. What good is it?" interrogated the old servant. "I'm not ever going out of this valley. Why, I'm 'most seventy years old already! It is well enough for you to learn things--you're young. As for me, the learning I have has stood by me up to now, and I guess it will do me the rest of my days."

With a smile on his simple face the venerable man turned away.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER VIII

PIERRE MAKES A FRIEND

The buyer who came to Bellerivre from the Gaspard silk mills was a lively little Frenchman whom Pierre had often seen before.

"So it is you, my young friend, who this year raises the coc.o.o.ns!" cried the merchant cordially. "Who would have thought it possible? But yesterday you were a baby in your father's arms. And now----" the little man shrugged his shoulders. "Eh bien, le bon chien cha.s.se de race! N'est pas, Madame?"

Madame Bretton smiled.

"The lad is but doing his best to fill his father's place," she answered quietly.

"That is as it should be with all good French boys, too," the merchant a.s.sented. "And have you ever visited our silk mills at Pont-de-Saint-Michel? No? Ah, but you should do so. It is only an hour's journey, and if you are to raise silk you must learn all you can about it. If I should give you a letter to our foreman would not Madame, your mother, be willing you should go?"

Pierre glanced up eagerly.

His eyes sparkled.

"Would you, Mother? It would not cost very much, would it?" He turned apologetically to the silk buyer. "You see," he explained, "in these war days we must be very saving, for every franc that we can spare goes to my father and my uncle, who are in the army."

"I know," sighed the agent. "Wherever I go it is the same. All the men are at the front. But the cost of the trip I suggested is very little, and I myself should be glad to----"

"No, Monsieur Leclerq," interrupted Madame Bretton. "I know what you would say, and I thank you; but we are well able to pay Pierre's expenses to Saint Michel, since you are so kind as to invite him. I am sure the excursion would more than repay us. It would not be like taking the money for a mere pleasure tour. Pierre shall go. It will be another step toward making a silk merchant of him."

"I wish I could go, too," whispered Marie.

"You are not to be a silk merchant, cherie," answered her mother gently.

"We women are the stay-at-homes, who do all we can to help our men forward in their careers; that is our work."

And so the next day Pierre, very happy and important, and with a large box of luncheon under his arm, set out upon the train for the Pont-de-Saint-Michel silk mills. To be going on such a long journey all alone was a novel undertaking for the lad, who seldom left his own green valley. It was almost as wonderful as if he were starting for Ma.r.s.eilles, or indeed Paris itself. The place where he was going did not, however, possess the glamour of either of these great cities. On the contrary it was merely a sort of depot or centre to which all the coc.o.o.ns bought up in the vicinity were sent to have the silk reeled from them; there were also at this plant some extensive throwing mills, but no weaving was done there. Instead the thrown silk was sold to the great weaving factories at Lyons, Tours, or other silk-making cities of France; and the raw product was sent to Ma.r.s.eilles, from which market it was either distributed to French mills or shipped to England or the United States for manufacture.

The day was a beautiful one. Ma.s.sive white clouds hung low over the distant mountains; but the valley was flooded with golden sunshine that illumined it like some vast search-light. The vineyards never looked greener, the hillsides more velvety and cool, or the river more sparkling. Now the train skirted the banks of the stream, now shot past meadows of fertile farming land; or of a sudden it crossed a noisy mountain torrent and crept up the hillside until the vegetation became low and stunted, and the rocky peaks of the Pyrenees seemed but an arm's length away. Then slowly down over a trestle of airily poised bridge-work it descended to the valley again. Was ever a journey such a marvel? To the French boy who had seen little of the outside world it was an Arabian Night's dream.

All too soon Saint Michel was reached, and Pierre set out for the silk mills, where he presented the card that Monsieur Leclerq had given him.

Then for a few minutes he waited in a small office where the jar of machinery and the whirr of wheels caused a monotonous and unceasing vibration.

Presently a giant foreman with sleeves rolled to the elbow came hurrying out.

He regarded Pierre with surprise.

"They told me that one of our silk-growers wanted to see me," faltered he uncertainly. "There has doubtless been some mistake. You are but a boy."

"I am nevertheless a silk-grower," smiled Pierre modestly. "It is because the men of our household are in the trenches that I----"

Impulsively the foreman thrust out his hand.

"I too have relatives in the battle line," he said. "My brother and cousins are there, and I should be with them now were it not for an ugly wound I got at the Marne. They will not take me back to fight, even though I have begged to go. And so here I am--restless and half angry that I must remain boxed up at Saint Michel and make silk instead of being where the firing is going on. Yet some must stay behind and carry on the country's industries. Perhaps I can still do my bit here. I have tried to be philosophical about it and work as hard as I can, for I feel that those who cannot help in one way can, maybe, help in another."

He glanced at the card Pierre had brought.

"Bretton is your name?"

"Pierre Bretton."

"Monsieur Leclerq says your shipment of coc.o.o.ns was a good contribution to the prosperity of France."

Pierre flushed.

"I am glad if it seemed so. We must support ourselves--my mother, sister, and I--and not be a burden to the country while my father is away."

"That's the right spirit," answered the foreman heartily. "And so you want to see your silk reeled off--yours, or somebody's else? Well, you shall. I am busy myself and so cannot go with you; but Henri, one of our boys, shall take you with him and tell you all you wish to know. Do not fear to ask questions if you do not understand, for Henri is well able to answer them. He knows everything that anybody can about silk reeling."

As he beckoned to a tall, slender boy who sat at a desk opposite the foreman smiled kindly down at Pierre.

"Henri," he continued when the employee approached, "I want you to show this young silk-raising friend of ours, Monsieur Bretton, how we sort coc.o.o.ns and reel them off. Tell him everything you can, for he is a grower and has the right to know."

"Mais, oui, avec beaucoup de plaisir," answered the boy. "I will do my best." He bowed to the foreman, who, after shaking Pierre by the hand, turned away. "Now Monsieur Bretton----"

"My name is Pierre. No one ever called me Monsieur Bretton before, and I do not like it," protested Pierre smiling. "I am but a boy like yourself. Please call me by my first name--if you do not mind."

Henri beamed on him.

"I should like it much better," he replied cordially. "And I am Henri St. Amant. Now it is all understood, is it not? Shall we begin then our journey through the filature? We will go into the sorting rooms first, where the coc.o.o.ns that are sent to us are cla.s.sified. Most of them have already been cured, or baked, for the majority of our customers do that for us. When they do not we have to expose the coc.o.o.ns in our own ovens."

"Don't most of your coc.o.o.ns come to you sorted?" questioned Pierre.

"Most of them are roughly cla.s.sified," nodded Henri. "But the grading must be much more finely done. Only experts can sort coc.o.o.ns thoroughly."

[Ill.u.s.tration: HE LED THE WAY INTO A LONG ROOM]