Читать бесплатно онлайн книгу  Red Caps and Lilies

автор Katharine Adams

This cover page was added by the transcriber, and is placed in the public domain.

RED CAPS AND LILIES

By KATHARINE ADAMS

Mehitable: The story of a school in Paris

The Silver Tarn: Mehitable in school in England

Toto and the Gift: A French girl comes to New York

Midsummer: American young people in Sweden

Midwinter: Another mystery story of Sweden today

Wisp: A girl of Dublin

Red Caps and Lilies: Boys and girls during the French Revolution

Thistle Inn: How two girls helped Bonnie Prince Charlie

Blackthorn: A romance of Elizabethan England and Ireland

At The Old Green Mill-Inn

Red Caps and Lilies

By KATHARINE ADAMS

Illustrated by

JAY VAN EVEREN

New York

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

1943

Copyright, 1924,

By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

All rights reserved—no part of this book may be

reproduced in any form without permission in writing

from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes

to quote brief passages in connection with a review

written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper.

Set up and electrotyped. Published April, 1924.

Reprinted January, 1925; April, 1926; June, 1927; May, 1928.

Reissued November, 1932.

Reprinted September, 1934.

January, 1936.

February, 1937.

February, 1938.

December, 1938.

February, 1940.

October, 1941.

July, 1943.

Printed in the United States of America by

THE FERRIS PRINTING COMPANY, NEW YORK

FOR ROSE FILLMORE

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I.

In the Schoolroom

1

II.

Marie Josephine’s Secret

11

III.

The Bal Masqué

22

IV.

Jean

39

V.

Inside the Coach

52

VI.

August Tenth, 1792

64

VII.

At Les Vignes

79

VIII.

Humphrey Trail

101

IX.

Dian

113

X.

In the Snowstorm

124

XI.

“Tha Must Not Cry Out, Lass”

137

XII.

Dian Makes a Friend

148

XIII.

Pigeon Valley Again

159

XIV.

What Lisle Put in the Cake

173

XV.

“She Is Like Our Little Mademoiselle”

193

XVI.

Marie Josephine Is Ready

201

XVII.

At The Old Green Mill-Inn

217

XVIII.

Vivi Sees the Other Side of the Gates

232

XIX.

In the Bakery Shop and Out of It

245

XX.

Lisle Seeks Adventure

256

XXI.

In the Hidden Cellar

268

XXII.

Champar to the Rescue

288

XXIII.

In Great-aunt Hortense’s House

302

XXIV.

Through The Gates

318

XXV.

Out of the Mist

339

ILLUSTRATIONS

At the Old Green Mill-Inn Frontispiece Page Marie Josephine 2 Flambeau 16 Lisle 28 Jean 40 Le Pont 62 Humphrey Trail 74 Cécile 82 Bertran 98 Pince Nez 118 Grigge 126 Dian 150 Vivi 194

RED CAPS AND LILIES

Chapter I
 
IN THE SCHOOLROOM

“Flambeau!”

The sound was illusive. Flambeau listened with every bit of him, his taut, strong body alert with eagerness. The call might have come from the landing outside the small salon of Madame la Comtesse, but it had sounded higher up; the schoolroom, perhaps, or the nurseries beyond. Flambeau gained the top of a high staircase with a few leaping bounds, ran down a corridor, turned a corner, and almost knocked down his own Marie Josephine, who had been calling him. He leaped upon her in welcome.

“I’ve been out on the balcony, Flambeau. I called you from there, for I thought you might be in the garden.”

A voice from a half-open door near them called sharply, “Marie Josephine, come in and close the door.”

Marie Josephine walked slowly toward a flicker of light reflected on the wall opposite the schoolroom door, and went inside, closing the door after her. Flambeau had come in with her and he walked somewhat disdainfully toward a table which was drawn close to a dancing fire in a deep, old-fashioned fireplace. The table was covered with bits of brocade, satin, and gold lace. Two girls sat one on each side of it, and a short, fat maid sat cross-legged on a stool at their feet, bending over a piece of sewing in her lap. When Marie Josephine and the dog came into the room, the maid stood up and made a curtsy.

“Will you sit in your favorite big chair by the fire, Little Mademoiselle?” she asked.

Marie Josephine shook her head for reply, watching the swift darting of the maid’s needle as she sat down again and went on with her work. Then she glanced at her cousin Hortense, who held a piece of ermine up before her.

“It will do for the edging of the mantle, will it not, Proté?” Hortense asked the maid. Without waiting for an answer, she went on speaking. “I hoped that Tante would allow us to sew the ruby in the crown, but she would not consent!” As she spoke, Hortense looked at Denise, Marie Josephine’s sister, who sat opposite her.

Denise tossed her red-brown curls out of her eyes and pouted. The pout made her look younger than her fourteen and a half years.

“You’ve made this one crookedly. You must do another one at once, Proté,” she said, handing the maid a small black object.

“Yes, Mademoiselle,” Proté answered.

Marie Josephine

“Fasten this cord, please, Proté. It does not seem to be right the way I have done it!” Hortense held out another black object to the little maid, who took it smilingly, with a little bow which made her black hair, gathered into a huge knob at the back of her neck, stand out like a big black bun.

Marie Josephine still stood by the fire, Flambeau beside her. She looked at her brother as he spoke.

“Proté cannot do everything at once,” he said. He sat in the deep shadow of the window seat at the far end of the room, his hands clasped about his knees.

Denise smiled at him over her shoulder as she answered: “You know nothing about these things, Lisle. You have nothing to do about them, but sit and look on. All that concerns you regarding them is that you are to wear the robe and crown at the De Soignés’ ball!”

“Ball! You speak as though you were going to a ball. You are only two years older than Rosanne and I. There is no reason why we should not have been invited. I should think they would be ashamed to leave Rosanne out of it all!” exclaimed Marie Josephine.

“Little Mademoiselle would like, perhaps, to make a bow for her hair? A rosette of this rose brocade and a bit of the gold tinsel would become her,” suggested Proté, tying a neat knot in a corner of the piece of black cardboard which Hortense had handed her.

Marie Josephine shook her head. “No, Proté,” she answered.

Flambeau came up to Denise and nosed at the bits of ribbon in her lap. Denise gave his head a pat.

“Would you not like Flambeau to have a big rose bow? Greyhounds always look better with bows,” she said.

Marie Josephine shook her head listlessly, but did not speak. A big rose bow would be charming for Flambeau, a puffy one under his right ear. She was not invited to the De Soigné party, therefore she would not appear to be interested in any of the glittering array on the table. She caught her brother’s eyes. His head was thrown back against the dark, carved-oak window settle. He was looking straight at Marie Josephine, and she saw that he was smiling. She frowned at him with her straight black brows, and he frowned back with his straight fair ones. Marie Josephine’s frown was in earnest, but her brother’s was in fun.

“What a thundercloud! What a dragon! What an ogress! What a——”

Marie Josephine stopped her brother’s words with a stamp of her foot. “You are not to say that, Lisle!” she exclaimed passionately.

“Don’t tease her, my cousin. How can you do it?” reproved Hortense, rising as she spoke and going over to the fireplace. She laid both hands on the carved, gilded mantelpiece and stood looking down at the dancing swirl of blue and gold. Suddenly she put her face in her hands.

Marie Josephine went up to her and touched her arm, forgetting her own trouble for the moment. “What is it, Hortense? Why are you sad?” she asked.

Hortense raised her face and smiled. “I’m not sad, chérie; not this afternoon. It is only that now everything seems grey and dreadful, and Tante is unhappy because so many of her friends have gone away, and because of everything.”

“You’ll have the party,” Marie Josephine answered bitterly.

Her cousin put her arm about her for a moment and gave her a little hug. “You want to go so badly. I do wish you could; but even if Madame de Soigné had asked you, Tante would never have allowed you to go. Twelve and a half doesn’t sound much younger than fourteen and a half, but it is, you know,” she said.

“I’m always treated like a baby,” Marie Josephine replied. There was a good deal of truth in her words. She was small and quiet and shy. She would not be thirteen until November and that was three months away.

Lisle came up to the fire, stepping over Flambeau, who had settled himself in the heat of the blaze, and pinched Marie Josephine’s ear.

Proté came up to him with a collar of fluted gold tinsel and ermine. “Will you allow me to see if it fits properly, Monsieur Lisle?” she asked, putting her funny, plump face on one side as she examined her handiwork.

“No, I’ll not be bothered with frills to-day.” Lisle frowned this time in earnest, rubbing his shoulders restlessly against the side of the mantel and looking out of the window where dark trees tossed against a grey, stormy sky.

Hortense and Denise both spoke at once. “Lisle!” they exclaimed. Denise jumped up and came over to him, dragging a piece of blue velvet after her and unmindful of the fact that a piece of black cardboard was sticking to her chin. They all burst out laughing as she clasped her hands together and burst into a torrent of words.

“Lisle, you’re not going to be obstinate. You are going to be the Sun King at the ball, aren’t you?” she pleaded.

Lisle shrugged his shoulders, saying teasingly: “We shall see. I’ll not go with you if you do not clean your face. A nice, grown-up duchess you will make, with paste and black paper on your chin. I for one think it’s all nonsense. It’s stupid of the De Soigné to have a party now.”

Lisle was tall, and he held his blond head high, which made him look even taller and older than he was. He would not be sixteen until the following winter. He had a very fair face with a pointed nose and blue eyes which had a straight unwinking way of looking at one. His cousin Hortense, who had lived in his family since her infancy, was almost as tall as he, but she was dark, like Marie Josephine. Strangers always took them for sisters.

“I think it’s splendid of the De Soigné to have the party!” Denise danced mockingly in front of her brother as she spoke. He had consented to allow Proté to try on the collar, but he stood frowning over her shoulder as she surveyed the effect.

Some one came in quickly from the nurseries beyond. It was a short, sharp-nosed woman in a black silk dress with wide, flowing sleeves and a fichu of lace at the neck. This was Madame le Pont, the governess.

“There you are, chérie. I have been uneasy because I could not find you. Surely you have not been in the garden unattended!”

“I wasn’t in the garden. I was out on the balcony listening,” Marie Josephine answered.

“Listening! What do you mean?” the governess asked her.

“The noises of Paris, Madame. There are so many noises now. Flambeau was restless last night. He heard them, too!”

There was a low rap on the door. It opened and a servant came in. He walked noiselessly about the room, a taper in his hand, and a moment later lights flickered and then shone bravely from the many candles in bronze sockets on the tapestried walls. The servant made a bright bit of color himself as he moved about in his trousers of crimson velvet.

“Madame la Comtesse wishes the young ladies, Mademoiselle Hortense and Mademoiselle Denise, to accompany her in an hour’s time to the house of Madame la Comtesse de Soigné,” he announced.

Denise gave a little laugh of pleasure and danced the whole length of the room and back again. Then she caught Flambeau’s forepaws and tried to make him dance too, but the dog had such a bored expression that Denise only laughed again and dropped his paws.

“It is only Marie Josephine that you love, is it not, Flambeau?” she exclaimed, and then went on eagerly: “We shall enjoy talking about the ball with the dear De Soigné. Proté, I wish to wear my white cloak in spite of the storm.”

“I am tired of the very name of this ball!” Lisle walked over to the door as he spoke, but turned as Denise answered him.

“We are happy about it because we have had no fun in such a long time, now that everything is so different. Maman will not allow us to go out except in our own garden and to the De Soigné. It is only because they live in the next square that we may go there at all,” she said.

“Maman is foolish!” Lisle exclaimed, and the governess admonished him.

“Monsieur Lisle!”

“It is true, Madame le Pont. There is no real danger, not here in Paris. It is 1792, not the dark ages. Help will come from the royalists in Europe. It is only a question of being patient. It is not really a revolution, you know!”

Marie Josephine watched her brother with admiration as he spoke. How tall and brave and confident he was!

The governess smiled sadly but she was cheerful enough when she spoke.

“Come at once, Mesdemoiselles,” she said briskly. “Proté, tell Felice that the young ladies wish their coiffures done at once, and see to their mantles and hats yourself.” Then she turned to Lisle, who still stood lounging against the door.

“What will you do while they are away, Monsieur Lisle?” she asked.

Lisle smiled in his quiet, teasing way.

“I’m going to ride with my tutor, Madame,” he answered.

Madame le Pont threw up her hands. “Please do not do it when it so worries Madame your mother. It makes her afraid when you are so reckless!” she exclaimed.

“You are never to say that my mother is afraid, if you please, Madame,” Lisle said and, as he spoke, he opened the door and went out.

Madame le Pont went over to the table and stood fingering the bits of gold lace there. Marie Josephine watched her. Why had she not been told that she could go with Hortense and Denise? Rosanne de Soigné was her greatest chum. They could have sat quietly in a corner and talked. Marie Josephine turned toward the nurseries and then looked back at the governess, who still stood by the table.

“Le Pont is worrying. She is uneasy like maman. This is a bad time. Grandfather said that it would come. He said to me: 'Little Marie Josephine, I can almost see the black clouds, they are so thick ahead of us. But when they come I shall not be here, and I am the only one that seems to know they are drifting toward us!’”

The governess looked up and when she looked at Marie Josephine it was as though she had for the moment forgotten her.

“Little one, what will you do while I am away this afternoon? Proté will amuse you if you like. Perhaps you will work for a little while on the tapestry for your great-aunt?”

Marie Josephine shook her head vigorously. She stood thinking for a moment and then smiled up at the governess.

“I won’t be lonely, Madame. I don’t mind them at all. They may have as many parties as they like. They may go out for goûter every afternoon. It is nothing to me. I do not care!” She spoke earnestly but she knew she was not speaking the truth and the governess knew it also.

“But what will you do, then, all the rest of the afternoon?” Madame le Pont insisted.

“I’ll be thinking of grandfather,” Marie Josephine answered.

Chapter II
 
MARIE JOSEPHINE’S SECRET

Lisle put his head inside the schoolroom door before starting downstairs for his ride. Marie Josephine and Flambeau were standing by the window, and he crossed over to them, his jeweled riding crop and his gloves in his hand. His bright hair was tied at the back of his neck with a crisp, black ribbon. Marie Josephine turned toward him when she heard his footsteps.

“I’ve been watching from the window. Le Pont is walking with maman in front and the girls are behind them, with Neville following. Why does not Georges go with them? Does he not always accompany maman?”

“Georges has gone. He left our household early this morning. He is all for the people and has no longer any use for our kind. He is wise to go, for his neck is safer away from us than with us!” Lisle laughed down at her as he spoke.

Marie Josephine put her arm about Flambeau’s neck and looked at her brother.

“I don’t quite know what you mean, Lisle,” she said.

“I mean that Georges would rather be where he can talk with people in the streets and make trouble,” Lisle answered, but he looked almost as puzzled as his sister. He was fifteen and the head of his house, but he had never been taught to think things out for himself. He had hardly ever been alone in all his life, for when he rode or walked a tutor had always been with him. He had fenced and danced and shot, had studied about the old kings and the exploits of his own ancestors, but, like Marie Josephine, he only vaguely understood what really was going on in Paris.

“I want to go to Pigeon Valley, Lisle. I don’t like the sounds at night,” Marie Josephine said. She wanted to ask about the blue velvet and ermine and the crown but she could not make up her mind to do it.

Lisle pulled her cherry-colored rosette. He had come back because he had teased her. She knew this and she suddenly put her head down on his arm.

“I wish I could go to the bal masqué, Lisle. It’s going to be so wonderful,” she whispered.

“It is silly nonsense; that’s what it is! Madame de Soigné is giving the party for Cécile and Bertran. The fat Bertran needs a good caning instead of a bal masqué. He knows I know he cheated at fencing last week. It is a foolish time to have a soirée when everything in the city is upside down!” Lisle answered her.

“Maman said to Le Pont, 'There is no longer any pleasure for us now that the king and queen are in such danger, but let the children enjoy themselves while they may.’ I did not overhear her. She said it before us all here in the schoolroom.”

“Yes, maman fears always for the queen. Well, I must be off. Monsieur Laurent is waiting.” He lifted Marie Josephine’s chin and looked at her. “You are an odd little mortal. You are like grandfather.” Then he crossed the room and, looking back at her from the doorway, said:

“I’ll tell you all about the silly party after it is over.”

“The same night—as soon as you come home, no matter how late it is?” she called across the room excitedly.

Lisle nodded. It was a long room and she looked such a little figure sitting there on the broad window sill. He was right. She was like their grandfather.

She listened until his footsteps had died away. Proté was in the housekeeper’s room having a good gossip. She and Flambeau were alone.

She settled back in the corner of the window sill, Flambeau at her feet. She liked being there alone, and she felt sleepy and comfortable. She was thinking of her grandfather and of the spring afternoon two years before when they had had the adventure. She had often sat with him while he read or wrote and on that particular day she had found him looking at her in his sad, wistful way. The others had gone for a drive with Madame le Pont. The servants, except for the footmen on duty in the lower hall, were in their own part of the house, so they were quite alone. She had been sitting in the chair with the fawn and tiger coat of arms of the Saint Frères emblazoned in gold at the top of it.

“You have l’esprit, little Marie,” he had said. “You are the one who will think and understand and you are the one of this generation who will know how to help. I have a secret to tell you and something to show you. Promise me first that you will keep this afternoon locked up in your heart. Do not breathe of it to any soul unless the time should come when by so doing you feel that you will be of service to those you hold dear. Do you understand?” Grandfather had risen and come over to her as he spoke. “Do you understand, my child, that, after I am gone, except for one other, you are the only one who will know of what I am to show you and tell you?”

“Who is the other one, grandfather?” she had asked, all afire with eager interest.

Grandfather had shaken his head. “Do not concern yourself with that, little one. Be grateful that from them all I have chosen you. I am taking you down into the heart of the earth, Marie. I am going to tell you the legend of your house.”

Flambeau barked suddenly and fiercely, his feet on the window seat, his eager eyes intent on something which had caught his interest in the garden below. His bark brought Marie Josephine back to the present with a start. She jumped to her feet.

“Come, Flambeau, we’ll go down to the cellar,” she said. She ran across the room and the dog followed her with graceful bounds. When they reached the staircase, Marie Josephine leaned over the banister and listened, and Flambeau stopped and listened too. At the top of the first flight of stairs they both stopped and listened again. There was not a sound in the great house.

The next staircase was steep and they had to be cautious. Marie Josephine felt along the side of the rough stone wall as they walked, and she placed one foot before the other very carefully on the uneven hollows of the stone steps. It was a long way down to the cellars. They stopped to rest several times and welcomed the flare of a taper set in the wall at the bottom of the stairs. A damp, musty odor greeted them and a gusty wind blew about them.

All along one side of the cellar were shelves on which were jars of the good fig jam made by Mother Barbette at Les Vignes, the Saint Frères’ summer home in Pigeon Valley. Barrels of apples and potatoes stood in dusky corners. Marie Josephine went over to the shelves and sniffed at the jam. Then she spoke to Flambeau.

“I want to see Mother Barbette, Flambeau. I want to see Jean and Dian and Pince Nez, the crow. I want our home, Les Vignes. The lilies will be in bloom all along the south terrace.”

She sat down on the lowest step of the cellar stairs and put her chin on her hand, shaking her dark ringlets away from her face. A rat scudded all the way along a rafter above her head, making a queer, squeaking noise as he did so. Marie Josephine had seen him before, or at any rate one of his kind. He was a part of the expedition and the fun. She liked sitting there in the gloom, with Flambeau’s head against her knee, the silence of the house above her, and below her the secret! The cellars had been just as dusky and mysterious two years ago as they were to-day. Flambeau’s feet had scraped the same way against the stone floor. The only difference was that she was now almost thirteen and that grandfather had died!

She stood up and went quickly across to a far corner of the cellar, Flambeau following her. She knelt down near a pile of sacks filled with potatoes, and felt along the cold floor. Still leaning on the floor with one hand, she gave Flambeau’s head a little pat with the other.

“You are not to be afraid, you know, Flambeau. No Saint Frère is ever afraid. Grandfather said so; and you are one of the family you know, Flambeau!”

She felt carefully along the floor. She knew well that it was the seventh stone square from the corner that she wanted, and she found it easily, in spite of the shadowy, uncertain light from the torch by the stairs. Then she spoke again to Flambeau.

Flambeau

“This is the stone. It will open, you know. It always does, even though it never seems as though it really could. No one knows about it but you and me and the other one.”

She put her head sideways so that it rested for a moment on Flambeau’s upturned face, and she felt the eager response of a warm, rough tongue. Then she leaned over again, putting her palm on the center of the seventh stone, and pressing down upon it. At the same time she laid her other hand on the upper left side of the stone and pushed away from herself, and slowly and noiselessly it slid aside, disclosing a long, steep, ladderlike flight of stairs, leading down into what might have been the innermost depths of the earth!

Marie Josephine reached down to the right into the dark, yawning, square hole and lifted out a small iron lanthorn which rested on a ledge just underneath the stone panel. Then she struck the flint against the tinder, opened the lanthorn’s squeaky little lid, and lit the wick. A bright blue flame shot up at once, and, when she had shut the wee door, settled to a steady flame. She turned around and began to descend backward, resting the lanthorn on each step as she went down. When she had gone down several steps, she called softly to the dog, and he followed, facing her, putting one strong, slender foot in front of the other, with slow, unerring precision.

It was a long, slow descent, and as they went farther and farther into the musty gloom, a chill closeness enveloped them. Finally they reached the last step and found themselves on another stone floor, more uneven than the floor above, one that seemed to hold the echoes of the ages.

It was a large room into which they had come and there was the grey glimmer of rooms beyond. The walls were rough hewn, and trickles of water faintly edged their way through the massive stones. There was an astonishing air of homelikeness about the strange place. A huge red rug hung against one side of the wall, and above a great carved chest at the other end was a tapestry of the crusaders. The rug, though old, was still in good condition. It had been hung there by a Saint Frère just three generations back, but the tapestry had been there much longer, so long that it seemed a part of the ancient place. Near the ladderlike stairs was a long stone shelf and it shone and gleamed in the light from the lanthorn.

Marie Josephine sat down on the chest and leaned her head against the rough wall. The whole adventure of coming to the secret cellar was enthralling, but the most wonderful part of it was sitting there and thinking of Lisle Saint Frère, her oldest ancestor, he who had laid the first stone of this ancient place and whose one thought had been always to help others and to serve the right. As she sat there she felt the tears smarting in her eyes. She was thinking of her grandfather too. She fancied that she could see him walking up and down, a slight figure in his black velvet breeches and long coat, the brilliants shining on his pointed shoes, his delicate hands clasped together, the soft frills of lace falling over them. Yet it was not so much of him that she was thinking as of what he had said to her:

“It all began so long ago. This house is not like other houses, Marie. You know that well; all of you do. It is not just an old house like that of your Great-aunt Hortense, or of the De Soignés, or of others of our friends. This house is ancient, Marie. It is medieval! It was standing here when Lisle Saint Frère, your oldest ancestor, was brought home mortally wounded, and that is farther back than even your fancy can take you, little one—almost as long ago as the time of Charlemagne and the Song of Roland! It was built in the time of knights at arms. It was the idea of that first Lisle Saint Frère, and it was he who laid its first stone, he who became the bravest knight of his time in all France. He was the best one of us that ever lived. There has never been another who was so good.”

“Except you, grandfather,” she had said stoutly, and as she sat there in the dim stillness, she remembered that his face had lightened at her words. But he had answered her earnestly:

“I am poor indeed in the little I have done for my brother man, Marie. I have dreamed—just dreamed. I have wanted to help, but I have not known how. In each generation one of us has wanted to help, has been weighed down by the misery of those upon our lands. There is a time coming, mark me well, Marie, when the old days shall be at an end, when new ways of freedom shall sweep the old régime away. You will live to see that day. Be strong, Marie. There is not a young lamb at Pigeon Valley that you do not love. There is not a human being whom you could not love. You will see beyond the tinsel and the satin. You are the truest descendant of Lisle Saint Frère.”

She had protested, “Lisle is the truest, grandfather!”

He had answered: “Lisle is too proud. I have brought you to this secret cellar which has sheltered your ancestors in peril. No one has ever known of it except one of our family in every generation and one other who is outside the family. Keep it a secret unless the time should come when by disclosing it you can help some one in need. Meanwhile, be glad that you are the one of this generation to know!”

She began to be sleepy as she sat on the chest, thinking of all that her grandfather had told her, wondering who the “other one” could be. She jumped up, called Flambeau, and slowly and carefully they made their way up the steep, ladderlike stairs. A grey gleam of light greeted them through the open secret panel. Flambeau scrambled up on to the cellar floor after Marie Josephine and watched her, his nose quivering with interest, as she shut the panel.

She knelt there for a minute thinking of the old green lanthorn which she had put out and so carefully placed on its ledge under the secret stone, of the hidden room itself, and of the Lisle Saint Frère who had helped to build it with his own mailed hands. Last of all she thought of her grandfather and of the honor he had done her in letting her be the Saint Frère of her generation to know the secret. Then, suddenly, she remembered that her dancing master was to come at five. She brushed the cobwebs from her wide skirts and climbed up from the sombre cellar to the stately spaciousness of her home.

Chapter III
 
THE BAL MASQUÉ

“You need not worry at all, Proté. No one will know. It will be quite easy. Gonfleur is waiting at the door. You have said yourself that Mademoiselle Marie Josephine should not miss the fun.”

A small figure in a white cloak was following the little maid up a stairway leading from a side garden door of the Saint Frère house as she spoke.

“Mademoiselle may not be asleep. She often lies awake these nights. It is indeed a shame that she should not have gone with the others. But you, Mademoiselle, will they miss you?”

They were outside the nursery door as Rosanne de Soigné answered. She looked up at Proté and spoke indignantly.

“They think that I am asleep in bed with some silly bonbons under my pillow. It is the same with me as with Marie Josephine; they treat me as though I were a child. To-night I have an idea! You will hear me tell Mademoiselle!”

Proté opened the door leading to a small room off the day nursery which was Marie Josephine’s own apartment. She was not asleep, and as they came into the room she sat up in bed and said:

“What is it, Proté? What has happened?”

“Nothing has happened, Mademoiselle, except that your friend, Mademoiselle Rosanne de Soigné, has come to see you,” Proté replied, lighting a candle as she spoke.

Rosanne came up to the bed and, before Marie Josephine, in her bewilderment, could speak, said eagerly:

“You are to come with me, Marie Josephine. Proté is to dress you at once. You shall not be left out of the ball. Listen! I know a place where we can see it all, watch the dancing, and hear the music! Gonfleur is to bring us goûter when the others are having theirs. It will be the greatest fun!”

Marie Josephine was so surprised for a moment that she could not speak.

“Hurry, for we must not miss any of it. Proté has your stockings. Let her put them on,” urged Rosanne.

Marie Josephine stuck out her foot obediently, and Proté, kneeling beside her, pulled on the stockings, muttering to herself distressfully:

“This is dreadful. What if Madame la Comtesse should know! May the good saints protect me if Madame should find us out!”

When Proté said this, Marie Josephine seemed to wake up to the situation and, leaning over, patted the round knob at the back of the little maid’s head.

“You are a foolish girl, Proté. Have you not raged to me and to Monsieur Lisle because I was not invited? You even spoke to Le Pont. I heard you say to her, 'They must have been selfish indeed to have so forgotten the Little Mademoiselle!’”

While Marie Josephine was speaking, Proté was putting on her little silken undergarments, fastening the tapes which tied them with nervous fingers. Then she slipped a light silk frock over her head and put a blue cape about her shoulders.

“Come, Mesdemoiselles, I will escort you to Gonfleur. I shall be waiting for you at the garden door when the clock strikes ten, Little Mademoiselle. You must be in bed and asleep before Madame la Comtesse and the others return,” admonished Proté.

They had come out to the upper landing and they stood for a moment looking down into the great hall below. A man servant in red and white livery was passing through the hall. He stooped and extinguished the candles, until at last only a tall one in a high, golden candlestick on a marble table near the door was left burning.

“We must go down the other way. It would not do for the servants to know. One cannot be too careful in these bad times,” whispered Proté as they walked down a long hall, lit dimly by flaring candles in bronze sockets.

There was a light patter of steps behind them and turning they saw that Flambeau was following them. Proté shook her stubby finger at him, whispering in a hissing sort of way that made her voice sound almost like a whistle in the gusty corridor.

“Ah, the bad dog! You are to go back at once to Mademoiselle’s room. You are not to follow!”

Marie Josephine and Rosanne giggled, and Flambeau came forward slowly, in spite of Proté’s upraised hand and threatening looks.

“You know that he will come, as he goes everywhere with us. There is no use to urge him to go back.” Rosanne pulled impatiently at Proté’s arm as she spoke. The little maid only raised her hands as though in despair, and the four of them started to descend the steep flight of stairs. The two girls were both laughing softly with excitement, holding each other’s hands and looking back at Flambeau.

Marie Josephine knew this staircase well, but she said nothing. No one must know that she had ever been down these stairs before, because they were a part of grandfather’s secret.

An old man was waiting for them at the door leading into the garden. It was Gonfleur, the servant who had come with Rosanne. He held a lighted lanthorn in one hand and when he saw Proté and the children, he started to shuffle slowly along the path ahead of them, holding the lanthorn carefully so that they could see their way.

“We are both fools, you an old one and I a young one, Gonfleur. See that you return with Mademoiselle Marie Josephine at ten exactly, or it will be the worse for you!” Proté called after him in her funny, hissing way.

Gonfleur made no reply and, holding open the heavy garden door, let his two charges through and then followed them. They found themselves on the walk outside, the sultry dampness of an August night all about them. The roar of the city could be heard in the distance and from the corner came the sound of rough laughter and harsh voices. They turned away in the opposite direction from the voices and, as it was only a very little way to the iron door leading to the back entrance to the De Soigné mansion, they found themselves shut away from the street soon again, almost before they knew it.

It had been exciting to them both, that little walk through the night. Neither of them had ever been out this way before. Marie Josephine had never seen the city after sundown but once, and that was when, because of some trouble with their horses, they had been delayed in coming back from Pigeon Valley, where they spent their summers, and their coach had not entered Paris until evening. That had been the summer before.

When once they were inside the little door leading to the vast back quarters of the great mansion, there was no longer any need of Gonfleur’s lanthorn to light them, for all the way up the winding stairs were flaring torches. At the foot of the stairs the old servant bowed and left them. Rosanne called after him.

“You are not to forget to come with the sweets, Gonfleur!”

“I will remember, of a surety, Mademoiselle.”

They were so far from the region of the bal masqué that only the faintest sound of music came to them. Rosanne took her friend’s hand and they climbed up the steep stairs side by side. Marie Josephine knew where they were going or at least she guessed. It was the place above all others where she liked best to play. It was a little square balcony in the wall at the very tiptop of the house and one could reach it by this back flight of stairs. The two children had discovered it some years ago and, on the rare occasions when they were left to themselves, they had climbed up to it and looked down into the vastness of the great hall below.

The music of a minuet was being played as the two settled themselves in a corner of the balcony and looked down. The minuet music was very pretty, and the sight upon which they gazed was pretty, too.

“It is like maman’s picture of which she is so fond—the picture where all the people are dancing. It is by Monsieur Watteau. Grandfather told me so,” whispered Marie Josephine.

“There is no need at all for whispering,” Rosanne answered in natural tones. “No one could hear us if we were to shout ever so loud!”

They sat close together because they felt a little cold. Drifts of chill air came in from behind them. It seemed as though even in mid-summer there was always a breath of dampness at the De Soignés’.

Below them the many-colored throng moved through the dainty measures of the dance. The sound of laughter and young voices blended with the sweet strains of the music. It seemed like fairyland to the two who looked down on it.

“We can only guess who they are until they take off their masks, but I think that fat one in the red mantle is my cousin Bertran du Monde,” Rosanne said, leaning far over and peering around the corner, as she tried to follow the figure of a boy in red.

Marie Josephine looked too.

“Yes, that is Bertran. What a fat, funny boy he is! Do you remember how he teased us the afternoon that he came to tea with us all in our schoolroom? He is a stupid boy. You do not mind my saying that even if he is your cousin, do you?” Marie Josephine laughed mischievously as she spoke.

Rosanne laughed happily.

“No, it is true. He is a stupid, fat boy, and he is often very rude. See, is that not your cousin Hortense, the tall girl dancing with——?”

Marie Josephine interrupted her.

“It’s Lisle, Hortense and Lisle. She is almost as tall as he is and she is only fifteen. She looks so very grown-up. How happy I should be if I could dance the minuet with Lisle! He always thinks me such a baby!”

Lisle

There was a little choke in Marie Josephine’s voice as she said this, and she looked down very wistfully at the fun going on in the great banquet hall.

“The fruit and bonbons and the eau sucré are in the small room at the right. They will be going in there very soon after dancing for refreshment. Gonfleur has promised to bring us sweets and he will not forget. He is very good.” Rosanne lowered her voice a little though there was really no need. The music had stopped and gay, chattering groups walked slowly about or went on, as Rosanne had prophesied, to the room beyond.

Marie Josephine did not answer. She was deep in thought, her chin wedged in between the carved wooden spokes of the tiny balcony. How wonderful to be down there in the midst of all the glitter of lights and jewels, gold lace and flowers, and to have Lisle for her partner, Lisle in his blue velvet and brilliants!

Rosanne’s quick eyes looked here and there. Her one desire was to discover her friends and cousins among the gay throng below. She agreed with Marie Josephine that they had found Bertran, but was not so sure about his sister Cécile.

“Cécile would not let me see her beforehand. She did not come in with the others when they bade me good night. She knows about the balcony. I told her I’d be here and she thought it the greatest fun. She said she would do her best to see me and let me see her. She said she would come right underneath me if she could and that she would look up. Then I could tell that it was she. You see I don’t know what her costume is at all.” As she spoke, Rosanne moved a little so that Flambeau could wedge himself in next to her.

“Did you tell Cécile that you were coming with Gonfleur to get me?” whispered Marie Josephine. She could not help whispering; it made it all seem more exciting.

Rosanne shook her head. “No, I didn’t dare to do that. She would have been worried. Oh, she would have begged me not to go. Why, no one would think of such a thing, Marie Josephine; no one would ever believe I’d go out alone with just a servant at night!”

“It was a splendid thing to do, and I’ll not forget it,” answered Marie Josephine warmly. Then, with Flambeau’s head upon her knee, she sat quietly looking down. The music of a gavotte had begun and it was like a ripple of laughter. It made Marie Josephine think of Pigeon Valley and her home, Les Vignes.

They had always spent their summers at Les Vignes until this year. Marie Josephine had often heard the governess say: “We must thank God for Les Vignes, children. It is a refuge from all trouble.” Marie Josephine knew that there had been fighting in the streets, and that many of their friends had left France. Her maman no longer went out to grand soirées. There was sadness and restlessness everywhere.

“But I am happy to-night. Everyone is happy,” she thought. She had often heard Hortense and Denise anticipating the wonder of their first ball. They would wear the family jewels. It would be the grandest affair! Well, they had three years to wait. This was small in comparison to what that gala ball would be! This was just a handful of boys and girls in costumes made up for the moment by governesses and servants. There were bad times in the city. The people had imprisoned the king, Louis XVI, and the queen, Marie Antoinette, in the Tuileries palace.

“Things are always happening, but to-night they are happy things,” Marie Josephine said to Rosanne, and by way of answer, her friend said excitedly:

“There is Cécile, all in white! She’s holding out her silver wand as she dances. See! She’s looking up at us and smiling, though she cannot see us. It is too dark up here, and we are too far away.”

“I love Cécile better than any one except maman and Lisle and grandfather and Dian and you,” Marie Josephine answered solemnly.

“Not better than your own sister!” exclaimed Rosanne in shocked tones.

Marie Josephine nodded. “Yes, better than Denise. Cécile is like a maiden in a fairy tale, Denise isn’t.”

“Listen. Is that not Gonfleur coming up the stairs? He is bringing the goûter,” said Rosanne.

The girls peered down through the little door at the back of the balcony and after a moment Gonfleur turned a bend and came toward them.

“How fast he is climbing! I did not know his malady, the rheumatism, would permit him to go so fast!” exclaimed Marie Josephine.

When he came a little nearer Rosanne called softly to him:

“Good Gonfleur, you have come with sweets for us. You do well to hurry!”

The old man puffed for a moment as he reached the top step. Then he picked up Marie Josephine’s cloak from the back of the chair and began to put it around her.

“You are to come at once, Mademoiselle—at once, if you please, at once,” he muttered as he tied the ribbons at her throat with trembling fingers.

“What are you doing, Gonfleur? Mademoiselle Saint Frère is not to go home until we have had the sweets. Where are they? Do not hurry so!” Rosanne put her hand on Gonfleur’s arm and shook it. “Do not say that it has been discovered that she came here to-night,” she went on.

Gonfleur shook his head. “There is need of haste. The Little Mademoiselle cannot stay longer. No, she is not found out. It is not that. Would to the kind God is was only that, Mademoiselle. It is not a good night to be out.” Gonfleur stood shaking his head, still trembling as he answered.

“Not a good night. What can you mean! It is a beautiful night. Do you not see how splendid it is downstairs and how happy we all are?” Rosanne frowned and spoke impatiently, holding on to Marie Josephine’s cape. “You shall not take her away so soon. She shall have the sweets and fruit before she goes.”

“It is not happy outside, Mademoiselle Rosanne,” Gonfleur answered. Then turning to Marie Josephine, he said: “We will go back as we came, Mademoiselle. It is only a step to your portal where Proté will be waiting, but we must not delay. I entreat you, Mademoiselle, not to delay.”

Gonfleur spoke so earnestly and seemed so uneasy that the two girls were impressed. There seemed nothing else to do but for Marie Josephine to go with him at once. The two friends kissed each other on each cheek and then, her hand in Gonfleur’s and with Flambeau at her heels, Marie Josephine went down the long, steep stairs. On the first landing she turned and looked back at Rosanne, who stood in the dusk of the red velvet lined balcony looking down at her, her fair hair falling about her shoulders. Marie Josephine waved her hand and Rosanne waved back.

Gonfleur’s lanthorn was already lit, and it stood on an iron ledge by the door leading from the foot of the stairs to the courtyard of the great house. The court was deserted and they crossed it quickly, Gonfleur holding his charge’s hand firmly, and not once letting it go except for the moment when he unlocked the door leading from the court to the street. Marie Josephine was indignant with him for hurrying her away in such a fashion in the midst of the fun and before the sweets were served. She would have insisted on staying and would have told Gonfleur to wait until it was her pleasure to go, if her own position had not been an uncertain one. She had never done anything so daring before.

Gonfleur shut the door quickly behind them and they turned to the left, crossed the street, and found themselves at the side portal of the Saint Frère house before they knew it. As they stood for a moment in front of the door while Gonfleur fumbled with the lock in his near-sighted way, the loud clatter of horses’ hoofs rang out sharply in the confused night air. Marie Josephine looked back over her shoulder as they turned into the garden. She saw a squad of mounted soldiers rush by at full speed and disappear in a flash down a side street to the right.

Gonfleur muttered to himself as he pushed her gently along the garden path. Proté was waiting at the door and Marie Josephine was glad to see her. Proté took her hand and squeezed it and Marie Josephine squeezed back.

“Put Mademoiselle to bed at once. There is rough work to-night. Hear that!” They stood still and listened. There was a dull, heavy booming sound. Proté raised her hands.

“Cannon; and it’s the Tuileries. Neville told me a half hour ago that there were wild doings to-night. I’ll take care of Mademoiselle, never fear. Now get you home, Gonfleur. The others will be coming when they know there’s trouble.” As she spoke Proté shut the door and bolted it. Then she and Marie Josephine and Flambeau climbed the stairs as quickly as they could.

Proté’s fingers flew in undressing Marie Josephine and very soon she was tucked in her big bed. She lay awake a little while thinking of the music and the dancing and how lovely Rosanne’s cousin Cécile had looked in her white and silver frock and with her hair powdered.

“She seemed really grown-up, not pretending like Hortense and Denise, yet she is only fifteen. I saw the party anyway. What would Lisle and the girls say if they knew! I am nearly thirteen and they treat me like a baby. I am not a baby. I think more than Denise and I read many books that she does not know about at all, and I know about things too, battles and poems and old, old days that grandfather told me about. I’m not young at all, really I——” She was asleep!

When she awoke it was still dark. Flambeau’s cold nose was touching her arm and Lisle was sitting on the edge of her bed. In her astonishment she sat up and stared at him. He had thrown back the blue velvet, ermine-trimmed mantle that he had worn at the ball, and had unsheathed his jeweled sword. It glowed like a live thing on the whiteness of the satin counterpane. In the light from a flaring socket just outside the open door, his white face, fair hair, and the gleaming crystals on his costume shone in the summer darkness.

Marie Josephine touched his arm. “Lisle, why are you here?” she asked. “Isn’t it the middle of the night?” She shook the curls from her eyes, shivering a little in the midnight cold.

“I was just sitting here. I’m sorry you woke up, but now that you are awake I will tell you something. You are to leave for Pigeon Valley at six in the morning, you and Hortense and Denise, and of course Madame le Pont and Proté,” Lisle said.

“And Flambeau?”

Lisle shrugged his shoulders. “The dog goes everywhere with you. Bertran du Monde is going too, and his servant. They will ride by the coach. Bertran will be staying at Les Vignes with you.”

“Bertran du Monde! But he is not your great friend. You will not want him as a companion. Why does he go?” Marie Josephine was bewildered and not yet quite awake. It all seemed like a dream to her.

“I am not going with you.”

What was it Lisle was saying? His sister grabbed his arm and shook it.

“Don’t tease me. You always go to Les Vignes,” she said, but she felt that he meant what he had said and knew in her heart that he was not teasing.

“I am telling you the truth. You are going at six just as I have said. A rider has gone ahead to-night to prepare the servants at Les Vignes. You are to be quiet and obedient and are not to sulk.” Lisle spoke sternly but he did not frighten his sister at all. She put her arm about his shoulders and laid her face close to his. He did not return her caress, but sat looking straight in front of him. Marie Josephine sat back against her pillows, winking her eyes rapidly to keep the tears back. When she had put her cheek close to her brother’s she had felt something wet. It had been a tear. She must never let him know. He would never forgive her if he found it out.

“When are you coming?” she asked a little timidly.

“I don’t know. I shall not leave maman.”

“You mean because of all the noise and shooting and trouble and keeping the king and queen in prison,” asked Marie Josephine.

Lisle nodded. “Maman will not go. She says it would be disloyal. She is right. If it is disloyal for her, it is disloyal for me. But we will talk no more to-night. Then there is Great-aunt Hortense—we cannot leave her. You are to get up at once when Proté calls you, take your petit déjeuner, and then say good-by to maman. You are to shed no tears. Now lie down and go to sleep. I will tuck you up!”

Marie Josephine lay down, shutting her eyes obediently, though the tears forced themselves from under her lashes.

Lisle leaned over and kissed her.

“Always remember that you are a Saint Frère, Marie Josephine,” he said.

Chapter IV
 
JEAN

“Jean!”

Mother Barbette listened. It was the third time she had called within five minutes. First it had been “Petit Jean,” then “Jean,” and the third time there was a note in her voice which meant, “If you know what’s best for you, you’d better come at once. I know you’re hiding somewhere. The branches of the pear tree by the old well make good switches!”

She waited, listening. There was no answer except the sleepy twitter of meadow larks in the field beyond. Mother Barbette shaded her eyes from the hot noon sunshine and looked off across the deep green of grass and trees. The grass had been freshly cut and mounds of it lay about the cottage dooryard. Its sweet, warm scent was everywhere.

“You are somewhere about, of that I’m sure, and now I’m going to find out!” Mother Barbette’s black eyes twinkled mischievously as she spoke. “When I went up to the big house with the eggs I heard such a piece of news!” she called out.

A green mound moved suddenly in a jerking way, and the next second a dark head and two bright black eyes peered out. Then a brown hand appeared, closing quickly and just missing an elusive yellow butterfly. Then the whole of the boy came into view. He was covered with grass from head to foot. It stuck to his frayed, yellow trousers and had crept down the collar of his black blouse. It tickled his nose, and he blinked his eyes for it was even wound into his eyelashes. He had swallowed some of it, and when he saw his mother’s surprised face, he began to laugh, and then to choke, and she had to slap him on the shoulders before he could stop. As soon as he could speak, he said eagerly:

“Tell me at once, Petite Mère, tell me what you heard.” He caught at her apron and pulled it. “Was there news of Paris, of the young ladies and Monsieur Lisle?”

“Maybe it was that!” Mother Barbette chuckled as she spoke.

“You are teasing me, Petite Mère. Tell me, is the family coming?”

Jean tugged at the blue apron. He was small for his thirteen years, and had a quaint, babylike face.

“Some of them are coming!” His mother was teasing now.

Jean frowned but he smiled almost at the same time, so that a dimple showed in his thin cheek.

“You know it is of Mademoiselle Marie Josephine I would hear. Tell me, is she coming?” he asked breathlessly.

Jean

His mother nodded, and he began to jump up and down, up and down, until he could not jump any more. Then he threw himself down upon the mound of grass from which he had emerged and flung his broad, torn straw hat up in the air, shouting as loud as he could shout, which was very loud indeed. His mother put both her hands over her ears.

“Hush, you are like a wild animal to-day. Little Mademoiselle will not wish to speak with you if you are rough. Come, I’ve no time to stand idle here. There is so much to do, the apartments to make ready. It is different indeed from the old days, for only the governess and one maid, the little, fat Proté, are to accompany the young ladies. None of the other servants of the Paris household are to come. There will only be the cook and scullery servants, an upstairs maid or two, and two men servants at Les Vignes—no state, no ceremony, no gaiety of any kind. The messenger who brought the news says that some of the Paris servants have left, and others are going. He says that they are storming the Tuileries palace—the people I mean, thousands of them. Madame la Comtesse became alarmed at the sound of battle and the cannonading, and late last night she sent a rider here. He arrived at mid-afternoon, and would only stay for a glass of wine and a bite of bread. He said he must make haste back again.” As Mother Barbette talked, she went inside her cottage door and Jean followed her, giving whoops of delight as he did so. His mother looked at him gravely.

“You need not make so much noise, my child. It is because of bad times that the young demoiselles are coming. We are so out of the way here in Pigeon Valley, without so much as an inn or a shop. Jacques, the rider, says we may be thankful that we are away from the towns. We are better off, he says, just to be here by ourselves in the valley, but we are bad enough off, some of us!” Mother Barbette sighed as she went over to her white wood table which, having been freshly scrubbed, shone in the late sunshine. “Jacques told many things and I know he spoke the truth, but it is hard to believe them.” She wrapped two loaves of bread, which stood on the table, in a clean towel which she took from a table drawer.

Jean was impressed by his mother’s tones, and followed her over to the table.

“What did he say, Petite Mère?” he asked.

“Many things which you must not hear, or you will be having bad dreams as you did after eating so much of the cherry tart that the kind Nannette at the big house made for me on my birthday. Run now with this bread to your cousins.” Mother Barbette sighed as she handed the bundle to Jean, who put out his under lip sulkily.

“They had bread on Monday. Grigge is a horrid boy. I do not like any of them,” he objected. Nevertheless he took the bundle and started slowly toward the door. He knew that it would not do to trifle with his mother that day, but there was nothing he disliked more than a visit to his cousins, who lived in a straggling settlement of poor hovels near the entrance to Les Vignes.

“Do not grumble or complain or you will have a good taste of the pear-tree switch. Your cousins, have nothing, and never have had anything. You should not be selfish just because you have food every day, and goat’s milk too. It is only because of the kindness of the old Comte Saint Frère, who left in his will the word that you and I were to have our maintenance here in the cottage, that we are not begging for our food in the town squares. You know that well. It is not Madame la Comtesse who cares where we are or what we do. Run now, and take shame to yourself for your greediness!”

Mother Barbette was very uneasy and this made her tongue sharper than usual. She stood at the door watching Jean. He was all she had in the world, and when he looked at her with his merry, naughty, black eyes she seemed to see the young Jean Barbette who had wooed and married her, and who had died some few years back defending the old Comte Saint Frère from an attack by a stag when on a hunt. The fine old comte had never starved the peasants working for him, or laughed at their misery. The young Comte Lisle, too, had something gallant and lovable about him, in spite of the proud way he held his head. Mother Barbette sighed again, but soon she remembered that she had no time to stand and dream, and immediately began to busy herself about the cottage, humming the while. After giving a stir to the soup in the iron stock pot which hung over a low fire in her wide, stone fireplace, she went out, not even closing the cottage door after her. A loud caw greeted her as she stood for a moment drinking in the clear air. It was sunset time, and the sky showed salmon pink through the waving greenness of the trees. Mother Barbette turned and saw a black crow sitting on the stone window ledge.

“You need not caw to me, Pince Nez. You need not say you are sorry because you stole my thimble and tape last night and went off and hid them somewhere. Pince Nez! What a silly name even if Little Mademoiselle did give it to you!” Madame Barbette smiled as she hurried down the path and then, to her right, up the driveway to the great house, which loomed grimly against the sunset-tinted sky. The gamekeeper’s lodge was near the house, and so it was only a walk of a few minutes. There had not been another gamekeeper since her Jean had been killed, for the old comte had died and the young Comte Lisle was too young for hunting. Louise Barbette, with her boy, lived on at the lodge, making a scanty living for both of them by sewing when she could get any to do, and by weeding her tiny garden, which furnished all the food they had, except for the poor flour which made the thin, dark loaves of bread which she had sent by Jean to their poorer relatives.

Jean ran across the field and into the wood beyond. Every now and then he would give a clear, high call and then he would stop and listen. Once there was an answering call and then he laughed and his thin little face with its funny dimple wrinkled with delight.

“I’m happy and that’s why the lark answered. They never do if I’m cross,” he thought, and began to sing: “Tra la la, tra la la! They’ll be here the day after to-morrow. I shall hide behind the poplar trees by the gate and see them drive in!”

The way was long through the wood, which was part of the Saint Frère demesne, but it was beautiful and the air was cool and fragrant. After a while Jean began to run. It was fun to run in and out of the sweet greenness, always following the path which ended finally at a low stone paling. Jean could see, not far off, the towering arch of the great entrance way to the vast estate. He was never allowed to go in and out that way. He climbed the paling and ran across a field until he came to a dusty highway. He shuffled along the road, enjoying the thick clouds of dust that he raised about him. Little Mademoiselle would be coming in two days! He was on his way to his cousins—that was the only bit of blackness on his horizon. His cousins lived in one of a row of poor hovels situated some little way back from the roadside. Women sat in the rude doorways, glad of a breath of the fresh air. They were gaunt, sad-looking women, old long before their time because of years of heavy work in the fields, little food, and no rest at all. Children swarmed about the doorways and in the rough-looking stubble field beyond.

Jean stopped before the next to the last hut, where a lanky boy in ragged clothes stood slouching against the doorway. He had a long, ugly face and he was so thin that he seemed nothing but bones and eyes. He snatched one of the loaves of bread from under Jean’s arm and began eating it, tearing at the end of it with his teeth. The second loaf and the towel fell to the ground as Jean caught the other end of the loaf that Grigge was devouring and pulled at it with all his might.

“You shall not eat it all up. The others shall have their share,” he cried. But Grigge, who, in spite of his thinness, was stronger than Jean, being two years his senior and used to rough work, pulled himself away, bread and all, and went inside the hut. Jean turned around only to find his two younger cousins and the children next door fighting for the second loaf. He knew that there was nothing he could do to separate them or reason with them and so, having brought the bread, he could only leave them to fight it out. There were a dozen children now fighting for the loaf. Jean watched them for a moment and then turned back toward home. A voice called to him from the doorway in mocking tones. It was Grigge. He spoke between mouthfuls.

“You think you are very fine because you live with the gentry. You think you are a prince because you live within the gates!”

Jean turned and shook his fists at him and then ran on. He was in no mood for a fight with his cousin just then. Little rosy clouds floated in the sky, the air was full of the scent of the warm earth and cool wind. Jean began to run. He ran on faster and faster. He liked to think that he was flying. He was going home to a bowl of hot soup and the comfort of his mother’s presence.

As he ran through the wood, Jean began to feel very sorry indeed for his cousins. His mother was right. They had never had anything. He was sorry that he had not wanted to take them the bread. His mother’s cottage came into view as he reached the clearing in the wood. Mother Barbette was sitting on the doorstep knitting and the white deal table was drawn close to the door. When he came up to her he threw both arms around her and gave her a hug.

“I am a good boy. I know I am, Petite Mère, because the lark answered when I called. It never does if I am naughty.”

“Your soup is keeping hot over the fire. Dish it out carefully into your own blue bowl. There is a piece of bread on the table. You may eat it with your soup here at the table by the door. The night is so fine that I could not stay inside.”

“I would rather sit on the doorstep beside you, Petite Mère,” Jean answered, bringing his porringer of soup, and sitting down at his mother’s feet.

He did not talk at all until he had finished his soup and bread, for he was very hungry. When he was finished he went in and peered inside the stock pot, but there was no more soup.

“I am still hungry, Petite Mère. I want more bread,” he complained, coming to the door.

“You cannot have any more bread to-day. You have had enough. Perhaps when the Little Mademoiselle comes she will give you a piece of white bread and fig jam,” returned his mother.

Jean’s face brightened and he leaned against his mother’s shoulder.

“You will make the jam for the big house again this year. Little Mademoiselle and I will watch and taste and then take some bread and jam to the woods for a picnic. We shall go to our favorite spot near the sundial. I love it best of all, Petite Mère. It is all dark and woodsy and then there is suddenly the open clearing and the sundial!” Jean began to hop about the low-ceilinged room, from one end to the other. He would have liked to have jumped up on Mother Barbette’s treasure, her four-poster bed, but he did not dare to do so.

“You are so young, Jean. Will you ever grow up? Ah, I cannot credit what Jacques told us, but it must be true. Those brave fellows from Provence marched all the way to Paris! Jacques left while they were storming the king’s palace! What times! What days!” Mother Barbette shook her head over her knitting. Then she remarked to Jean, “Your cousins were thankful for the bread, I’ll wager!”

Jean nodded vigorously.

“They were as hungry as Wolf, the lodgekeeper’s dog, after he was lost for four days. They tore the bread to bits and all the other children came. They were fighting over one loaf when I came away.”

Mother Barbette dropped her knitting in her lap and bowed her head.

“Grigge was the worst of them all, Petite Mère. He snatched a whole loaf for himself and he taunted me again. Grigge is not my friend.”

“He is always hungry, poor Grigge. He works all day at the olive mill for so little a pittance; it is no wonder that they starve.” Mother Barbette sighed as she spoke and Jean patted her cheek.

“You are not to do that again, Petite Mère. You should smile because Little Mademoiselle is coming! I am going to find Dian and tell him the good news!” Jean made a dash at Pince Nez who had alighted on the back of Mother Barbette’s chair. Then he ran with a whoop down the little box-bordered path, through a hedgelike opening into the forest, on through piney sweetness, through deep, dark arches of mingling boughs, on and on, until he came to a great sweep of sloping meadows.

Jean saw the grey, moving mass of a flock of sheep in the distance, and he did not stop running until he had come up to them. Some one was walking beside them, a tall man in a grey smock, his long, red locks falling about his shoulders.

“Dian, Dian, they are coming to Les Vignes, the Little Mademoiselle and the other young ladies!” Jean cried.

The shepherd smiled a slow, quiet smile.

“Yes, I know that they are coming. I saw Jacques the runner. They are coming, but the young Comte Lisle remains in Paris with his mother,” he said.

Jean skipped along beside the shepherd. They were great friends and it was always easy for him to talk to Dian.

“I was very naughty to-day. I did not want to take the bread to Grigge and the others. I do not like Grigge. Why do you take your time to teach him to read and write, Dian? He is not at all a nice boy. He is like a wolf.”

The shepherd had reached the sheepfold door, and he stood with both hands against it, ready to push it open. He paused at Jean’s words, uttering no reproach, but looking off across the field to where a delicate mist mingled with the startling beauty of the sunset sky. Jean stood watching him digging his bare toes into the soft earth.

“Grigge will learn,” was Dian’s answer as he went inside the sheepfold.

Chapter V
 
INSIDE THE COACH

The coach was so heavy that as it rolled along the quiet country road it made a noise like thunder. The coach was gilded and on the panels were hand-painted pictures of cupids dancing. There had always been two men up on the high seat behind and two in front. Now there was only one man who was driving, and he was not really a coachman at all, but Neville, a footman of the Saint Frères’. He wore a dark livery and he was very intent on his driving.

Marie Josephine leaned way out of the window and looked at him. Then she sat back on the blue velvet cushions of the coach so hard that she bounced up and down.

“Neville looks so funny, so solemn and frowning!” She laughed as she spoke, but there was a little catch in her voice. They had always been taught to hide their feelings with a smile, and Marie Josephine knew that her grandfather would have been glad to hear her laugh. It had all been so strange and different early yesterday morning. Proté had brought her her chocolate and petit pain and she had had her breakfast before she had been dressed. When she had come down to the great entrance hall her mother had been there, waiting. Lisle was there, too, and Hortense and Denise and Madame le Pont. The governess and the girls were ready for departure in their mantles and traveling hats. Maman had seemed different, though she wore, as usual, the mourning for grandfather, the diamond brooch that fastened her lace fichu, and her hair powdered and dressed high, like the queen’s. Maman had been different in spite of all these familiar things. She had held Marie Josephine’s hand as she had talked to the governess, giving directions in her quick, commanding way.

“There is, of course, not the slightest danger to the children. You will not have the least inconvenience, except that you will not have proper service, but I don’t trust the other men servants. There may come a time later on when it will not be so easy to get away. They may guard the gates if things get worse. I am glad to see you starting for Les Vignes.”

While maman had been speaking the steady roar of cannonading never stopped. It had followed them a long way out of the city. They had even heard its faint ghostly murmur when they were lunching at an inn. Marie Josephine had not remembered all that her mother had said, but she had sensed suddenly that there was danger. She had thought over again and again of her mother’s remark: “There may come a time later on when it will not be so easy to get away. They may guard the gates if things get worse.” Maman had, as always, thought of her as being young and unheeding, but she had been listening closely. The others had been talking amongst themselves and had not heard. Over and over the words came back to her: “There may come a time later on when it will not be so easy to get away.”

Cécile du Monde was the only one who smiled when Marie Josephine spoke of Neville. She sat between Hortense and Denise, opposite Marie Josephine and the governess. It had been decided at the last moment that she was to come. She and her brother were distant connections of the De Soignés’ and the Marquis de Soigné had charge of their estates, which were far away in the southwest of France. They were orphans and spent most of their time with their Paris relatives. Madame de Soigné had refused to allow her own child to leave her at the hurried conference in the middle of the night, after the bal masqué was hastily broken up. The sound of cannonading was heard, and alarming reports came in from all sides. It was like the Comtesse Saint Frère to act quickly. She had decided at once that the children, with the exception of Lisle, who refused to leave her, were to start at once for Pigeon Valley and had offered its hospitality to her friends. Madame de Soigné had accepted first for Bertran, who was a troublesome, spoiled boy, of whom she was glad to be rid in the midst of such an anxious time. Then after a talk with Cécile, who felt that she should go with her brother who was younger than she, it had been arranged that they should both accompany the Saint Frère children. As Lisle had told Marie Josephine it would be, Bertran rode with his servant. The sound of their horses’ hoofs could be heard faintly in the still midday air.

Proté sat on a stool at Marie Josephine’s feet although there was plenty of room for her in the seats of the great, roomy coach. Ever since Marie Josephine could remember Proté had sat on the stool at her feet and held her treasures for her as she grew tired of them. Once it had been a large, gilded, blue glass vase, another time a miniature of her great-grandfather, and once a red silk shawl which she had held in her arms pretending it was a baby, cooing to it and singing to it. But all that had been, of course, when she was very young. The wooden Austrian doll, called Trudle, which her uncle had brought her from his journeyings, had always accompanied her until this summer. Madame de Pont, even in the midst of her worry, noticed Trudle’s absence and said:

“Where, chérie, is the little friend Trudle?”

Marie Josephine shrugged her shoulders.

“You are like the others, Madame. You think of me always as a baby, just a baby. Dolls, dolls—why I am done with them!” This time they all laughed, even Proté, who would not have dared to do so had they been accompanied by Madame Saint Frère! She knew well that Trudle was safe in the packing box, on top of the coach!

Flambeau rested his nose on the ledge of the coach window and looked out yearningly at a fragrant stretch of green meadow. His eyes followed the sudden flight of birds from the branch of a great poplar as they thundered by it.

At lunch time a very small inn seemed to grow suddenly out of the ground as they turned a bend in the road. It was painted green and seemed a part of the rich August countryside. Neville stopped the horses, climbed down from the box, and bowing, held his hat in his hand, as he spoke to Madame le Pont:

“If it is your pleasure, Madame, I think you and the young ladies can find refreshment here. There is a sign which says that meals are served.”

Madame and the girls looked out and exclaimed in astonishment:

“The old mill!”

Neville had opened the coach door while he was speaking and Flambeau and Marie Josephine jumped out. The others followed after a moment, and they all stood in a group looking across at the odd-shaped, mill-like structure that stood a little way back from the road, with its sign, “Food for Travelers,” swaying in the light summer breeze. A year ago it had been just an old mill, grey and gaunt in the midst of its green setting of great oaks. The governess turned to Neville uncertainly.

“You are sure that it is wise to come here? It seems odd finding the old mill so unexpectedly!”

“Let us stay for déjeuner. Oh, it’s a dear place, as quaint as can be!” put in Denise, and Neville answered:

“I think it is wiser than to go to a village inn. I am taking the long route to avoid the villages. That was the order of Madame la Comtesse. There is no real danger, of course, in the villages, but just now Madame felt justly that one cannot be over careful.”

Madame le Pont nodded in assent. “We will remain here for déjeuner, Neville.”

A tall, dark young woman served them with good soup, an excellent omelette, and some grapes, at a table covered with a clean, white cloth, on the greensward facing the forest. She stayed by while they ate, asking with a curtsy every now and then, if there was anything more that they wished, or anything special that she could procure for them. She was particularly kind to Flambeau, cutting his meat nicely and putting it in a blue saucer by the lunch table. Marie Josephine was so pleased at this that she went up to the woman after they had finished lunch and said:

“Flambeau wants to thank you for his déjeuner. He is very tired of the journey and will be glad when we are home at Les Vignes.”

The young woman, who had said her name was Paulette, smiled kindly and seemed interested.

“Pigeon Valley is indeed beautiful, Little Mademoiselle. The other young ladies, are they your sisters?”

“A sister and a cousin and a friend.” Marie Josephine smiled happily at the dark woman who was patting Flambeau’s head.

Just at that moment Bertran du Monde came galloping up to the queer mill-inn, with his servant riding behind him.

“The young gentleman would be your brother I suppose, little lady?” the woman asked as she turned toward the inn.

“That boy is not my brother. My brother is in Paris with maman,” Marie Josephine answered a little indignantly, but the woman was walking away and did not seem to have heard her. Marie Josephine was not used to speaking to strangers, but the dark young woman had been very kind to Flambeau.

Bertran was very hungry and he was cross because he had to wait for his omelette. He was a very fat boy indeed, but he rode well and was not in the least tired. When Madame le Pont suggested his coming into the coach for a while and letting his servant lead his horse, he said, “Ride in the stuffy coach and hear the girls chattering! No, I will not, Madame!”

They left him sitting at the table, waited on by his servant. A stone in his horse’s shoe had been the cause of their arriving after the others. It was thought best for the coach to start on as it could not make such good time, and so they waved their hands at Bertran and rumbled on toward the forest. Two people in the coach did not wave. They were Madame le Pont and Marie Josephine. The latter was more than ever out of sorts with Bertran. It had come over her suddenly that it was indeed Bertran and not Lisle who was with them. So, when he had answered Madame about the coach, she had said to him, “It is not you we want in the coach, Bertran. It is some one else.” He had answered, sitting down at his déjeuner as he spoke:

“Is that so, Mademoiselle Spitfire! Well, I shall do as I like. When I wish to ride inside I shall do so, and when I don’t, I won’t!” Then he had gone on calmly with his omelette.

They thundered into the forest and its spicy fragrance greeted them. The air was cool there, and the dim wood paths seemed like fairy paths to Marie Josephine. It was so peaceful that it made them all think of Pigeon Valley. They grew more cheerful right away, and even Madame le Pont remarked that it was delightful to think of seeing Les Vignes again. She had purchased some fruit at the inn and Denise held a bunch of amber-colored grapes high above Cécile’s head and said, “Bite one!” Madame le Pont remarked, “That is not the way a young lady conducts herself!” but she did not seem to be really shocked at all.

Hortense yawned and put her head back on the cushions, her curls falling about her shoulders.

“You look like a little girl to-day, Hortense. I thought you looked such a very grand young lady when you danced the minuet with Lisle the night before last.” They were still driving through the woods and every now and then a startled bird would make a great stir in the trees or underbrush as they dashed along. Marie Josephine did not realize what she had said at first, but when they all turned and looked at her and Denise exclaimed: “When you saw her dancing with Lisle! What do you mean, Marie Josephine? You were not at the ball!” she knew how stupid she had been and the telltale color flew to her cheeks.

“How could you have seen me dance at the ball when you were fast asleep in bed?” put in Hortense.

Cécile looked straight at Marie Josephine and suddenly she guessed. She knew that Rosanne had been hiding in the balcony. There was a twinkle in her blue eyes as she looked at Marie Josephine, but she would not have told her suspicions for anything in the world.

“You are blushing. You have done something very naughty. I am sure of it!” Denise said this with a relish. She was tired, and she had always had a habit of keeping persistently at a subject. She and Marie Josephine did not get on very well.

“Tell me what you meant when you said that about Hortense dancing at the ball, Marie Josephine,” she persisted.

Marie Josephine’s eyes began to twinkle, too. She settled back comfortably against the pillows and called Flambeau’s attention to some black baby pigs which a woman in a scarlet petticoat was feeding at a moss-covered wooden trough. Denise kept her eyes on Marie Josephine, who held Flambeau’s paws as the dog looked interestedly at the pigs. Marie Josephine knew that Proté, who still sat on the little stool at her feet, was shaking in her shoes. It would be fun to tell in spite of the consequences, if it were not for Proté and for Rosanne!

“You dare not look me in the eyes and say that you did not go to the ball,” persisted Denise, who was becoming more and more interested and excited. She had not at first really believed that her sister had gone to the ball and had kept on the subject because she felt in a teasing mood, but Marie Josephine’s telltale color betrayed her and Proté’s look of horror confirmed her suspicions.

“Proté helped you, I know she did. Tell me, Proté, did you not aid Mademoiselle to go to the De Soignés’ to see the ball?”

Denise, to do her justice, would not have kept up with the subject had their mother, the comtesse, been with them, but none of them were very much in awe of Madame le Pont. There was no need for Marie Josephine to reply for Proté clasped her hands and exclaimed:

“Heaven be with us! I meant no harm. It was so wrong for Little Mademoiselle to have none of the pleasure!”

All eyes were turned toward Madame le Pont who, to their unbounded surprise, did not seem in any way as horrified as they had expected! She looked at Marie Josephine and then at the others and said:

“After all, now that so many things are happening, what does it matter!”

Could it be true! Their governess saying, “What does it matter!” Madame le Pont, who, in spite of her being more indulgent than the governesses of their friends, had always been so fond of the conventions! She did not even seem to realize what Marie Josephine had done, and she said nothing at all to Proté, who sat looking the picture of fright and despair! Denise was so surprised at the attitude of the governess that she whispered to Cécile under cover of the rumbling of the coach:

“Le Pont is in a dream, surely, but I am glad. I was excited and didn’t realize what a scrape they would be in!”

Le Pont

Years later Marie Josephine remembered the incident; in fact she never really forgot it. There were times when she could shut her eyes and see, in that uncanny way in which we do see long-ago things, the old coach, the faded coat of arms that had not been regilded that summer, the old blue lining, the warm August sun streaming in, bringing with it the odor of freshly cut hay and oats, thin rows of poplars rising against the startling blue of the sky, and the peasant women bending over their work in the field beyond. She could see Denise’s astonished gaze, from under her lace hood. She always remembered the words and the whole incident because it was the beginning of the great change. Madame le Pont was right. Things that had mattered so much were beginning to be not so important. There would be a time when they would not matter at all.

Chapter VI
 
AUGUST TENTH, 1792

Lisle and his mother had finished their déjeuner in the great dining room of the Paris house. The tall, gilded clock in the entrance hall had just struck twelve. All through the meal the cannons in the Carrousel, the inner court of the Tuileries palace, less than a mile away, had thundered outside. The glass chandelier above the table had shaken until its chains, jangling together, made a sound like music in the dim, vast room. The amber-colored velvet curtains at the windows were drawn closely together and the room was lighted by four candles in gold candlesticks on the table.

Lisle piled his nutshells in a heap on his plate. He had something to tell his mother and he did not know how to go about it. There was a dish of fruit on the table, as well as a carved bowl full of nuts and a carafe of wine and one of water, and even a bowl of flowers, a few red roses which Henri had picked that morning from the vine by the coach house. The comtesse leaned forward and picked one from the white bowl and held it to her face. Then she said what she had been thinking all through the meal:

“Nothing would matter if only you had gone with the others, Lisle. Why did I let you stay!”

“Because you knew that I would not go!” Lisle answered.

She looked at him and he returned her look steadily.

“I’m not a child any longer. I’m fifteen and a half and the head of the house,” he went on. “I’ve stayed to see Paris now. I want to see what happens.”

The comtesse put both hands over her eyes and sat that way for a moment. It was as though she would shut out all the confusion and worry of the past weeks and months, especially of the last two days.

Within twenty-four hours five of the men servants had left without a word. Some of them left because they were frightened, for it was beginning to be thought not so good a thing to be a servant in a great house. It was not the loss of her servants that mattered so much. It was the fact that they were her enemies, and that, with the exception of those who had gone to Pigeon Valley, there was only one remaining whom she could trust—and that was Henri, one of the footmen.

“Pardon, Madame, you asked for fresh news from the Tuileries. It is going hard with the Swiss guards. They made a brave stand but they are losing badly, Madame. They cannot resist the people, above all the Marseillais!”

It was Henri who spoke. They had not heard him cross the great room.

“The Marseillais are fighting well?” It was Lisle who put the question.

“Like tigers, Monsieur Lisle,” the servant answered. He was a little, dark man. His voice shook as he spoke and his face was white above his red and gold livery.

“The royal family—they are safe?” Madame Saint Frère twisted her lace-bordered handkerchief between her long, white hands as she asked the question, but her voice did not tremble.

“Henri cannot know what is going on inside the palace or the Carrousel, maman. He can only glean wild rumors from the crowds in the side streets,” Lisle said a little contemptuously.

“Pardon, Monsieur Lisle, but a runner came through and shouted news at the Town Hall. The royal family have taken refuge in the riding school with the National Assembly. They went through the gardens.”

Henri waited, and, as the two did not question him again, he left the room as quietly as he had entered it.

The comtesse reread a note that lay beside her plate. It was from Monsieur Laurent, Lisle’s tutor, and it stated in polite terms that he had left that morning for England, having had a sudden opportunity to get away. His departure seemed unbearable to the comtesse. Now that Laurent had gone, there were no other men that she could count on at all. She had a brother who was an invalid and some cousins who were preparing to fight with the Royalists but they were not in Paris at the moment. The Comte de Soigné was away fighting. It seemed as though every kind of protection had left her. Things were happening so suddenly, one after another, and although one could not believe that there could be any real danger for any of her family, she would have given much, as she said, to have had her only son safe at Pigeon Valley.

“Promise me, Lisle, that you will not go out into the garden,” she said.

“I cannot promise that, maman. I’ll not be cooped up in the house. You are fretting about that stupid Laurent. I for one am glad he is gone. I never want to see his smirking face again.” Lisle leaned forward and spoke earnestly. “You must trust yourself to me, maman. I told you the girls should be sent at once to the country, and you see that I was right. Whatever happens at the Tuileries, it is only a question of time until the Austrian army comes and our own royalist armies are ready.” Lisle looked so earnestly at his mother and spoke so confidently that the comtesse smiled in spite of herself and returned his look with one of pride.

“Maman, I don’t trust Henri,” Lisle continued, speaking softly. “He does not really mean us harm, I think, but he is from Provence and the Marseillais are from Provence. They are proving themselves to be brave soldiers. Henri, once he is in the crowd, will be heart and soul with them. You will see!”

As Lisle spoke the tapestry at the far door swayed back and Henri came into the room.

“Madame la Comtesse de Soigné is here to see Madame,” he said.

Lisle walked with his mother to the salon door, but did not go inside. As Henri opened the door, Lisle saw his mother’s friend cross the room and come toward her. Rosanne stood near the door and made a curtsy as his mother entered. Lisle waited until Henri had left the hall and then went through the marble vestibule, opened the great, grilled door, which was the front entrance, and went outside. Gonfleur was waiting by the door. Lisle went up to the old man.

“Gonfleur,” he said to him, “you are the only one I can trust. There is not one of our servants who is true to us, now that Neville has gone.”

Gonfleur bowed and answered: “I am only an old man, Monsieur Lisle, but there is nothing I would not do for the family. Madame de Soigné knows that well. She is in trouble, is Madame la Comtesse.” He did not say more, so Lisle turned away and went inside to the great drawing-room. His mother and Madame de Soigné were sitting on a velvet chaise longue at one end of the room and talking earnestly. Long mirrors reached to the ceiling on each side of the room. The rose carpet was of velvet and sank under Lisle’s feet as he crossed over to his mother. There were gilded tables and chairs and carved cabinets filled with jeweled trinkets. The hangings at the long windows were of rose brocade.

Lisle came up to the chaise longue and bowed ceremoniously to the comtesse and to Rosanne, who stood close to her mother. Madame de Soigné was to leave Paris at once, they told him. She had just had word that her husband, who was with the Royalists, had been wounded and she could not stay away from him another hour. Gonfleur would accompany her and Madame Saint Frère was to keep Rosanne safe with her. The Comte de Soigné was in a hospital near Valmy.

“It would have been well, Madame, had you allowed Rosanne to accompany my sisters and the others to Les Vignes.” Lisle spoke coldly; but when the comtesse answered, with tears in her eyes, that she had not dreamed of all that twenty-four hours would bring forth, he said simply, “I will care for Rosanne as though she were my little sister.” Then he went out of the room.

There was no one in the great hall, and going into an anteroom he took down his black velvet cape and cap and went out through the great entrance door, closing it after him. He ran quickly down the marble steps, and, after standing a moment uncertainly on the corner, turned to the right and walked toward the Champs Élysées.

It was a strange walk, the first one he had ever taken alone in the city. He had always been accompanied by his tutor or a servant. Boys of noble birth did not go out unattended. It was the strangest day that he had ever known. A wild exhileration seized him and he began to run. He had felt this way before when he had ridden to the hounds, when he had run at top speed across the fields at Les Vignes, but to-day it was as though he had never really known emotion. The thunder of the cannonading at the Tuileries pounded through the great avenue. As he came nearer a black sea of people loomed before him. The deafening roar of the guns, the screams of the wounded, the wild shouting from thousands of throats mingled, making a hurricane of sound. He stopped suddenly, a little bewildered, and seeing there would be no chance of going farther on the avenue he turned off and round down a side street, slackening his steps as he came to the rue Royale.

Here the noise was greater, but although the street was filled with people, some leaning out of the windows of shops, others shouting from the roof tops, he was able to make his way for some rods. No one noticed him. He was only a drop in a mighty ocean, only one among millions that tenth day of August, 1792!

There was a noisy crowd of excited onlookers on top of a coach just beside him and the owner of the coach, a prosperous spinner, who had drunk deeply of Rhenish wine, was the noisiest of them all. He caught sight of Lisle, who was wedged in between a group of taller people, and cried out to him:

“Come up and see the show, my fine fellow!”

It was the first time that any one in all the wild city had spoken to him. He jumped up on to the coach and stood there with the spinner and his family. The next instant he forgot everything but the sight before his eyes.

There was a group of people close to the cart. One could hear their rough voices and harsh cries above the seething roar of the battle in the great square beyond. Their scarlet caps gleamed in the relentless August sunshine. They held on to the sides of the cart, screaming, “Vive la nation!” and throwing their arms about each other in a sort of frenzy. It was such as they who were to make a part of the mob that was soon to govern Paris.

Far at the end of the Place du Carrousel grenadiers, pikemen, and gendarmes lay dead and dying. Floating mists of smoke drifted with the sudden, freakish changing of the wind, and through it all the battle cry of “Death or Liberty” floated back to the watching thousands in the Champs Élysées gardens and in the surrounding streets.

“The Marseillais have the Cour Royale!” was the word passed from lip to lip, and then the cry of “Vive la Nation” swelled like the storm tide of a sea.

“The Swiss have given way! The Swiss can no longer stand!”

This last cry roused Lisle as he stood on the spinner’s cart, and the meaning of it caught his heart. The gallant Swiss guard who had fought, like the brave fellows that they were, to guard the palace and the royal family—the Swiss were vanquished!

“The men of the Faubourg de Gloire have the Cour des Princes! Hurrah for the Faubourg de Gloire!” Again a mighty roar shook the very roofs of the houses.

Another court of the palace had fallen!

The sun caught the bronze of the cannons in the square and they flashed like scarlet fire through the iron-grey smoke clouds.

“The men of the Faubourg Saint-Marceau have taken over the Cour des Suisses!”

The last court of the Tuileries was in the hands of the people.

Lisle stood still in the sunshine watching the end of all that had made up his life. He was too young and inexperienced to realize very much beyond the things that he had always known, quiet cherishing of old traditions handed down, riches, beauty, unthinking narrowness. His king and queen were in hiding in the back confines of the Tuileries. The great palace itself was given over to the people who had taken it with bayonet and gun. The roar of the cannons and of the thousands of voices meant a good-by to the old ways. Lisle stood there like a statue, his hands clenched at his sides, tears stinging his eyelids, his gold hair ablaze in the sun. Then, suddenly, almost without knowing it, he raised his voice and cried with all his might:

“God save King Louis!”

He had hardly cried the last word before he was seized from the cart and half dragged, half carried at a swift pace down a side street off the rue Royale, opposite which the cart had been standing. His captor turned a corner swiftly, and then another, and puffing and gasping for breath, he finally pushed Lisle under a gabled doorway where they could not be seen from the street. Lisle’s blue eyes flashed fire into quiet brown ones. His captor was a short, fat man in a snuff-colored cloak and wide hat. He had a round, kindly face and, in spite of the situation, he was smiling.

“Take your hand off me. You are not to touch me!”

Lisle was so angry that he spoke with difficulty and his companion was so blown that he could only puff and pant. He looked furtively around the arched doorway of the deserted shop.

“I was quick and no one shall say tha’ Humphrey Trail canna run when the devil is close,” he said, as though to himself. Still holding Lisle firmly by the arm, he turned and smiled at him again, in no way disturbed by the boy’s haughty face and flashing eyes.

“Not so fast, my young gentleman, not so fast.” As he spoke Humphrey Trail pushed Lisle back a little farther into the shadow. His hold was gentle but firm. “Tha hast a rare bright face. I’d not thought tha’d sell tha life so easy there on the cart. Hast tha no sense that tha calls 'Long live the king’ with them beside tha that would cut tha throat?”

Lisle tugged at Humphrey’s arm with both hands. He was still so angry that he could scarcely speak. After a moment he called out again, “God save King Louis,” and smiled mockingly at Humphrey Trail.

His captor seemed in no way put out by the cry, for the side street was deserted and there was no one to see or hear them.

“Tha would do well to stop tha foolishness and listen to sense. Tha cannot help tha king by tha shouting. Hark to me, lad, and ponder well what I say. This is the greatest day that France has ever known. Mark me, lad, this is a day of brave deeds and clean fighting. Days will come so black that the country will never lose its shame o’ them; but to-day the Marseillais have fought for the love o’ nation, and they have fought well.” Humphrey still held Lisle as he spoke but loosened his grasp when Lisle said:

“There is no need to hold me, for I shall not run away from you. There is no harm in you, except that you are meddlesome. You say the Marseillais fought bravely. Well, the Swiss guards fought better! Even our servant, Henri, who is from Provence, spoke of their bravery!” There was a choke in Lisle’s voice, though he tried to swallow it. It did not escape Humphrey Trail.

Humphrey Trail

“Not so fast again, young lad. I but meddled, as tha calls it, to save tha life!” he said, and, meeting Lisle’s flashing eyes with his kindly ones, he smiled.

Lisle held out his hand. “I believe you, Humphrey Trail, and I thank you. Know that I am grateful.”

Humphrey shook Lisle’s hand warmly.

“Th’art no fool that tha remembered my name from my sayin’ it that once. Tha speaks English as well and maybe better than I who was born on a Yorkshire moor,” he said.

Lisle looked at him curiously. “You come from England—from Yorkshire! Why are you here?”

“I’d many a bit o’ gold coin saved from my shearin’ and sheep sellin’. I wanted to see things about the world, to go to foreign parts where there wasn’t just milkin’ and farmin’. I wanted to see a bit o’ life, and I am seein’ it and likely to see more.” Humphrey laughed as he spoke and Lisle laughed, too. All anger toward his rescuer had gone, although he still resented being thought stupid for having shouted for the king, and being carried off by this funny, fat farmer in such an unceremonious way.

Humphrey Trail caught hold of his arm and said:

“Haste tha home, young lad. Keep within tha doors for a spell o’ days till things settle a bit. If it please tha, I’ll see tha to tha door!”

“Thank you, Humphrey Trail, I have no fear of being on the streets. I can go my way quite well alone. I cannot promise you to stay within doors but, though I shall always shout for my king, I will not forget your advice entirely.” Lisle held out his hand and the farmer shook it again warmly, saying:

“Good-by to thee, lad.”

He watched Lisle as he walked on down the narrow street and he muttered to himself, “Th’ lad, th’ proud, odd lad!”

Toward the end of the narrow lanelike street Lisle paused, hesitated, turned back a step or two, paused again, and then went straight on without looking back. Humphrey noticed the action. The boy had something he wanted to say to him.

“Th’ lad would ask a favor o’ me but his pride put it by him. He wants a friend and there maybe is no one else.” As this thought came to him, Humphrey Trail threw the cape of his coat about his shoulder and walked rapidly in the direction Lisle had taken. He never lost sight of him. Lisle walked straight ahead and did not once look back. He had lost his velvet cap in the affair of the cart and he walked on hatless, unafraid, his hair, a sweep of blazing gold, tied at the back of his neck with a flaring black bow. Humphrey’s heart almost failed him as he watched Lisle. It was well indeed for the boy that this tenth of August was not a day for any one person. It was a day of great issues and the time had not yet come for individuals! It was a day of wild excitement, of gallantry and courage! Humphrey Trail had spoken rightly when he had said that it would be the bravest and the best day of all. Those who guarded the Royal family in the Tuileries had fought like the chivalrous knights that they were. There were never more valorous soldiers than the red-coated Swiss guards who held their places for the king until they could no longer stand. On the other side, there were never cleaner, braver men than those gay, unfearing men of the Marseillais battalion, who had marched for weeks, through every kind of weather, to fight for liberty in Paris, and who died singing their beloved Marseillaise with their last breath,

“L’amour sacrée de la patrie!”

Lisle reached his home in safety and, turning in at the iron gates, ran up the marble steps and pulled a silk rope at the side of the grilled iron door. He heard the bell clang through the great house. The door was opened at once by Henri, who gazed at him with a white face and gasped out:

“Monsieur Lisle, Madame, your mother, is beside herself in fear for you!”

When Humphrey saw the great doors close after Lisle he turned and walked rapidly away. He knew where the lad lived and he would not forget the house.

Lisle was met at the door of the first salon by his mother, who caught him by both shoulders, raising a pale, frightened face to his.

“You have been out alone in all this rabble, you who are only a child.” She caught her breath with a sob as she spoke.

“I have been out, but I am not a child, maman, and I have made a friend all by myself, without any help from the family.” Lisle smiled at his mother. “I have made a friend in Paris to-day, and his name is such an odd one, maman. It is Humphrey Trail!”

Chapter VII
 
AT LES VIGNES

“Mother Barbette is making fig jam and Nannette has given me some croissants. Jean and I will take a little bowl of the jam with us and we will have a picnic in the woods!”

Marie Josephine announced this from the foot of the wide granite steps leading to the terrace at Les Vignes. Hortense sat under a wide-spreading oak tree at the right of the steps. She was doing a piece of tapestry for a fire screen, weaving the glowing colors, crimson, orange, and blue, in and out, and every now and then holding her work in front of her, surveying it critically.

“You are such a baby, Marie Josephine, thinking always of silly plays with that infant, Jean. Why do you not bring your embroidery and sit here with Cécile and me under the tree. You promised maman that you would finish the shawl of Great-aunt Hortense so that she could have it when the cold days come. Her house at Saint Germain is so chilly!” Hortense shook out her silks as she spoke, holding them so that the sunlight flickered through them.

“Bother Great-aunt Hortense! She always fusses and frets about something and maman is so in awe of her. We treat her as though she were the queen. I hate sewing when the sun shines like this. I don’t like it any time. I tried to embroider one rainy day when Jean and I listened to one of Dian’s stories in Mother Barbette’s cottage but I could only think of the story!”

Cécile du Monde, who came walking slowly along a garden path, laughed at Marie Josephine’s last words, but Hortense frowned.

“You are too old to be so silly. You’ll be thirteen in November. We may have to stay here at Les Vignes for a year or even longer before we can go back to Paris. I should think you would want to begin to learn to be a young lady, Marie Josephine!”

“Name of a name, Hortense, do not preach so much!” Marie Josephine returned crossly, but smiled the next moment at her cousin’s horrified expression.

“That is dreadful. You are talking like a peasant. It is because you go so much to Mother Barbette’s cottage. She is a good woman but it will not do for you to pick up expressions of the people!” Hortense frowned again and turning to Cécile, who came and stood at the back of her chair, she said to her: “I wish that Le Pont had some authority over Marie Josephine. She has none at all!”

“Bother!” put in Marie Josephine. “Come, Flambeau!” she called as the dog bounded toward her up the terrace steps. She patted his head while she looked across at her cousin.

“You are not really a prig, Hortense, but you do sound like one sometimes. None of us are as nice as Mother Barbette and we never can be—none of us, except Lisle,” she said.

Cécile held a great sheaf of white and gold lilies in her arms. Their sweetness blew about the girls in the gentle wind. It was hot, with a hazy, sleepy heat of mid-September. It was a little over a month since they had come to Les Vignes.

“Don’t squabble, girls. See these beauties. I am going to give some to old Martin for the supper table to-night. It is so warm we could almost have supper out of doors,” Cécile said, sitting down on a low chair beside Hortense.

“Why do you say almost, Cécile! Of course, we shall have supper outside to-night, of course we shall! There comes Le Pont now. I’m going to run and ask her. She must say 'Yes,’ for it will be a wonderful evening!”

Marie Josephine called this over her shoulder as she ran to meet the governess who was coming toward them down the terrace steps. She caught Madame le Pont’s hands in both of hers and swung them back and forth, and the kindly, worried face of the little woman brightened.

“It is the most beautiful day in all the world, Le Pont. It is a fairy day. Jean says that the birds and flowers talk to him right here in the Les Vignes woods when it is like this!”

“You are happy. That is well, little one. Yes, it is like the long ago days at Fontainebleau that I remember so well. We used to hunt in the forest.” Madame le Pont sighed as she spoke and, taking Marie Josephine’s hand, walked with her toward the others.

“Cheer up, Le Pont dear, and do say that we may have supper on the terrace, for we have set our hearts on it, all of us, even old lady Hortense!” coaxed Marie Josephine as Hortense and Cécile rose to give the governess a chair.

“Sit here please, Madame. I will walk a little way with Marie Josephine, who is going to Madame Barbette’s cottage,” said Cécile, putting her arm about Marie Josephine and holding the lilies across her shoulder with her other hand. “Wait for me one moment while I give these lilies to Martin, chérie. May I tell him, Madame, that we may have supper on the terrace?” Cécile turned toward Madame le Pont as she spoke.

The governess nodded, smiling a little sadly.

“Yes, of course, if it pleases you, children, and if the night air is not too chill,” she answered as she sat down in Cécile’s chair beside Hortense, her satin bag of work in her hand.

“Tell Martin to put on the candelabra with the gold shade!” Marie Josephine called after Cécile as she went up the terrace steps, and her friend looked back over her shoulder, smiling assent.

Cécile

A few minutes later the two girls were walking through the forest in the demesne at Les Vignes, their arms about each other. They wore long, full summer dresses of fine, sprigged Indian muslin, which blew about them in the soft breeze. Cécile had on a garden hat, which she had tied under her chin with a pink bow, but Marie Josephine swung her hat back and forth by its black velvet streamers. She would not have gone so far as to carry one if she had not known that Hortense and the governess would have been shocked at her going about without a hat.

“I think that Neville will come to-night, Marie Josephine, perhaps by sundown. Think of it, news of them all, news of Lisle!” Cécile bowed her head suddenly, almost as though she were praying.

“We will be so glad to see Neville that we will not know what to do. If I see him coming down the drive, I shall run and run until I come up to him. He will have messages from maman and Lisle and Rosanne. Perhaps he will bring word that they are on the way to us!” Marie Josephine put out her hand to pat Flambeau, who was walking beside them.

“It is a fortnight since he went. He should have returned before this. It is not more than a good two days’ ride with a fast horse and Neville rides well. I hope so much that he comes to-night, Marie Josephine. Chérie, we left in the midst of so much and we have heard nothing since. I wish that we were not so far away from everything,” Cécile answered.

“You are worrying, Cécile, and you are not to do that. Try and be like Bertran and Denise, who ride and dance and never seem to give a thought to Paris. We are better off than if we were near a town. Jacques, the runner, told Mother Barbette so. He said we were well out of all the jamboree, but—oh, I know what you mean, chérie; we want news of Lisle!”

Cécile stopped in the middle of the pathway and kissed Marie Josephine on each cheek.

“I’ll go back now and sit with the others under the oak tree. Sometimes I am envious of little Jean because he has you for a comrade more than I.” Cécile was smiling as she spoke, but Marie Josephine felt that she was in earnest.

“If only you would come with us sometimes to the woods. We know of so many pretty places and we have such jolly times,” she said.

Cécile turned and waved as she started back down the forest path and Marie Josephine, after waving in return, ran on through the dark archways of the trees. When she came to a clearing in the wood she saw Mother Barbette’s little red cottage with the smoke rising in zigzag fashion from its chimney. She ran up the one-stone doorstep into the low, dark room. There by her deal table was Mother Barbette and there, close beside her, licking a big iron spoon, was Jean. A row of jars stood on the table and Mother Barbette was covering them neatly with white paper when Marie Josephine ran up to her.

“I tried not to make any noise so that you would be surprised,” she cried, throwing both arms around Mother Barbette and kissing her rosy cheek.

“Little Mademoiselle, you are welcome. I have a nice little jar of jam for you and Jean, and, if I mistake not, the kind Nannette has given you some of her bread to eat with it!” Madame Barbette beamed on Marie Josephine as she spoke, wiping her hands on her clean white apron.

Jean put the spoon in the empty stock pot in which the jam had been cooked and which was still hanging on the iron crane. Then he ran over to his little bed of oat straw in a far corner of the room and drew out something from under the pillow. He wore his black smock which did not show the dirt and his black locks flapped about his face. He was full of delight at the thought of a long afternoon in the woods with his Little Mademoiselle.

Jean chatted happily as he walked beside his friend through the dark wood aisles. Now and again the sun would shine down in startling, golden showers of shifting light. It was harvest time and the scent of newly cut wheat blended with the spicy fragrance of the forest. As they walked they crushed wild thyme and lavender under their feet and the sweetness of the flowers was all about them. Jean kept glancing at Marie Josephine a little timidly. She did not seem quite the same and he could not make it out. He knew that she never ceased to think of her brother Lisle in Paris and that she was wildly impatient for the coming of Neville with news. They were to have had such a delightful afternoon in the woods, but she did not say anything when he skipped beside her, talking of what they would do. They had talked over all that had happened while she had been away, of the firelight stories Dian had told him and his mother, of the Paris peddler who had stayed three days in Mother Barbette’s cottage during a heavy snowstorm and who had told them all the news of the city. Jean had taken Marie Josephine to see the oven he had built for her in one of their favorite nooks and they had roasted potatoes in it. She had seemed to love it all just as usual, this dear country of Les Vignes, but to-day she was different.

It was an afternoon of bronze leaves and sunshine, of the noisy drowsiness of wood creatures, and of the brooding splendor of September. When Marie Josephine looked back at it she always thought of sunshine between black clouds.

“Shall we not have our bread and jam by the sundial, Little Mademoiselle?” Jean asked her as they turned down a path strewn with brown and gold pine needles.

“Yes, that will be splendid,” she answered, and then turning, called over her shoulder: “Flambeau, where are you? We are going to the place you love the best of all, the sundial!” She swung her hat by its ribbons, throwing it up in the air and catching it now and then. She had gathered her curls together into a dark coil, which bobbed over her shoulders as she walked.

“Dian is going to show us the three baby lambs to-morrow. Do you love Dian, Little Mademoiselle?” Jean asked, leaping along beside her, for she had begun to run.

She nodded and when she sank down at last on a bank of moss she smiled and nodded again.

“I love Dian because grandfather thought so much of him. He once said, 'Some people in this world are different and Dian is one of them!’ That is the reason that we love to hear his stories!”

They sat facing the sundial. There was no place that they loved so well as this quiet nook in the heart of a dense wood. No one really knew exactly how the sundial came to be there. The story was that an ancestor had wished to be alone with time and had had this place made for himself, where he used to spend long hours writing who knows what, perhaps verses, soliloquies, essays. At any rate, the sundial still stood in the heart of the wood and the gardener kept the brush from growing too close to it.

“You have not told me one fairy story since you came this time,” Jean reproached his friend as he opened the little green basket and brought out the jam and the croissants.

“I told you of the noises of Paris and how I lay awake and listened to them, of how Rosanne and I went to the fancy dress ball and hid in the balcony and watched the others dance. I told you about the funny café in the old green mill and the dark woman who made us the omelette. Why do you want fairy stories when real things are so wonderful!”

Jean looked so meek and contrite as he sat there on the moss bank like a little brown gnome, that Marie Josephine laughed out loud. Jean was her good comrade and dear friend, but she loved to tease him.

“Let us talk about Neville while we eat the croissants and jam. I can just picture him riding in through the gates. You and I will run to meet him, Jean. He will be covered with dust because he has ridden so fast. He will have a big packet of letters in his pocket for us all and he will bring news of maman and Lisle. Oh, perhaps he will bring word that they are coming soon.” Marie Josephine clasped her hands together in her earnestness. Then she took a bite of the croissants and jam and said something to Jean which so surprised him that he sat bolt upright on the moss and stared at her.

“I wish you weren’t such a very little boy, Jean. I wish you were old enough to plan and do things, and that you knew about something besides squirrels and jam and playing in the woods!”

Jean’s eyes snapped and his lips trembled.

“I am not a baby, Little Mademoiselle, truly I’m not,” he answered, but, as though in contradiction of his words, two big tears rolled down his cheeks.

Marie Josephine jumped up and came and sat down beside him, leaning back so that her hand rested on the grey stone base of the sundial. A field rabbit popped out from a clump of hedges near them, twinkled his ears, and vanished into the underbrush. Jean smiled through his tears, and wiped his eyes with his jacket.

“I didn’t mean to be unkind. You can’t help being young, of course, only you don’t seem to wake up.” Marie Josephine leaned toward him eagerly as she spoke. “I can’t express what I mean. They all think I’m a baby, too, at Les Vignes—Le Pont and Hortense, all of them except Cécile—but I think more than they do and I know things that they don’t know, things about which grandfather thought and told me. You and I have always been such friends and I know I can tell you anything. There is something that I may have to do sometime—— Oh, I don’t know, probably not, but if I should do this thing, you are the only one who will know!”

Jean’s tears disappeared. He smiled at his friend, and nodded his head vigorously when she asked, “You’ll stand by me and keep my secret if I tell you what I may do, won’t you?”

“You may trust me always, Little Mademoiselle. We are, as you say, great friends. We have had many good times together,” he went on wistfully. “You do not forget me even in the great city.”

“Of course I do not, stupide! What if one day we should have an adventure, you and I! What if we should be in great peril and have all sorts of thrilling escapes!”

“They did in the old days,” put in Jean eagerly. “They were always being rescued. You know how it is in some of Dian’s stories!”

Marie Josephine stood up.

“It must be time to go and meet Dian. We never want to miss that. See how the shadows have lengthened. Come, Jean!”

Jean picked up the little green basket and they went on through a long, straight wood path, looking back every now and then at the grey sundial in its patch of light.

“The sundial looks lonely, does it not? It has no friends but us!” Jean exclaimed, waving his hand at it.

“You are a dear, funny boy, Jean, my little brother. Come, let’s run!” As she spoke Marie Josephine caught hold of Jean’s hand and they fairly flew along the path, out into the great, wide, sweeping meadows. They ran on down a long lane, past the great barns, pausing at the last one to gaze inside where the sun sifting in on the grain made a glowing picture of grey and gold. They watched the great sieves, hung between poles, bending backward and forward, winnowing the grain from the chaff. Then they went on more slowly down the lane and, turning to the right, they saw suddenly the vast countryside and in the distance a slowly moving grey mass which was really the sheep coming home from pasture. They waved their hands at a tall figure walking with the sheep and ran toward it, through the fields. The air was luminous. There were flecks of gold in the sky. It was like flying through space, this running across the meadows to meet Dian and his sheep.

“Isn’t it good, Dian! Isn’t this a fairy evening?” Marie Josephine called happily as they came up to the shepherd. Dian answered with a slow smile:

“It is good indeed, Little Mademoiselle. There is nothing in the wide world so good as a meadow at sunset.” Indeed, as he walked through the tufted meadow grass in his grey smock, his tall figure outlined against the gleaming stacks of wheat, he himself seemed a part of the radiant evening.

Flambeau walked gingerly over the uneven ground, his eyes and ears alert for field rabbits. Jean and Marie Josephine walked one on each side of the shepherd.

“Jean and I had our goûter by the sundial. I’ve been talking to him about growing up. He is so young! He thinks of nothing but the woods and birds. He knows nothing of all that is happening in the world!” As Marie Josephine spoke, Dian turned toward her, smiling his slow, sweet smile.

“It is well that he does not know too much. This is good for him to know, just this,” the shepherd said, as he looked about him at the pasture lands with the grey sheepfold beyond, the deepening rose of the sky, and the zigzagging grey mass of sheep before them.

“It is good, Dian,” Marie Josephine laughed up at him. “I am so happy now, and this afternoon I was so sad.”

They had come to the sheepfold paling and Jean ran forward to help Dian open the great door. Vif, the sheep dog, ran around and around barking his orders vigorously and scolding the lagging ones who wanted just one more nibble of the sweet grass before being closed in for the night.

“The cigales have stopped buzzing, so that means summer is gone, doesn’t it, Dian?” asked Jean as they pushed back the gate together.

“Yes, and it means that the green crickets will be here soon, harvest will be over, and winter will come.” As he spoke the shepherd looked off at the horizon, and a look not so much of sadness as of great seriousness came into his face.

“I must run back, for it is time for Proté to dress me for supper. We are going to have it outdoors to-night as a treat.” Marie Josephine looked wistfully at Jean as she spoke. She would have so enjoyed his company at the evening meal under the stars, out on the wide terrace, but Jean did not seem to be at all envious of the outdoor supper at Les Vignes.

“You are to come to see us to-night, Dian. You shall have some of the new fig jam,” Jean called over his shoulder to the shepherd. Then as he went on through the wood with Marie Josephine he said happily:

“Mother will set the little table out under the big pine by the red well if I ask her to!”

“You will have a picnic, too, and I would rather go to it than to ours. Good-bye, Jean, until to-morrow.” Marie Josephine was off like a flash toward the great house which loomed before them as they made a sudden turning in the wood path.

She ran in at the stone lion-guarded entrance door, up a great flight of stone stairs, and into a big room on the right at the top of the stairs. Proté stood by the window looking out, but on seeing her little charge she came forward hurriedly.

“Martin says supper must be early because of the nights getting cold. It was Madame le Pont’s order. You must wear something warm over your frock. That was her order, too.” While she spoke Proté brushed out Marie Josephine’s curls in front of a long, gilded mirror which hung back of the dressing table. There were two silver candleholders which held lighted candles, one on each side of the glass. Marie Josephine smiled at Proté’s face in the mirror.

“I’ll wear Great-aunt Hortense’s shawl, you know the one she gave me to keep until I’m grown-up. Let’s talk about the bal masqué, Proté. Wasn’t it splendid of Rosanne to come for me that way with Gonfleur! I want to see Rosanne. I’ve so many things to tell her!”

“It may be, Little Mademoiselle, that she will have a great many things to tell you!” Proté’s round face looked solemn as she spoke. Marie Josephine looked at her more seriously in the looking-glass.

“Yes,” she answered slowly. “Yes, of course, I suppose she will. She is in Paris. Doesn’t it seem strange, Proté, when it’s so sweet and quiet here in Pigeon Valley, to think of Paris?”

Proté shrugged her shoulders and raised both hands, hairbrush and all.

“It is best not to think of it at all,” she said.

“I must think of it, Proté. Maman is there and Lisle. Do you think Neville will come in a few days, Proté? Do say that you do!”

“God grant it, Little Mademoiselle!” Proté answered.

They all smiled at Marie Josephine when she appeared ready for the outdoor supper with Great-aunt Hortense’s shawl over her white dress. It was a scarlet crêpe shawl, heavily embroidered in white fleur de lys, and it was so long that it almost completely covered her. She threw one end of it around her shoulder and walked majestically down the terrace steps.

“You did that well, Marie Josephine. It was quite like mother’s Spanish friend at the opera,” Bertran du Monde said to her, taking her arm and bowing mockingly as they went toward the supper table. This was unusual praise from Bertran, who generally quarreled with her.

“You think you can make me believe that you were ever allowed to go to your aunt’s box at the opera at night!” returned Marie Josephine. It was something she had wanted so very much to do herself.

“I have been several times. Is that not so, Cécile?” Bertran answered, appealing to his sister, who had just come up to them with Madame le Pont and Hortense.

Cécile nodded smilingly.

It was a merry supper party, for somehow everyone seemed to be in good humor. Bertran pretended to be quite overcome at being the only gentleman among so many grand ladies. He sat at the foot of the table and Hortense at the head. She was lovely in rose-dotted silk, her wide skirts fluttering about her in the light wind, a fichu of thread lace fastened at her breast. Cécile was lovely, too, in her pale green, her golden hair dressed high as she had worn it at the bal masqué. Denise and Marie Josephine sat one on each side of the governess, both in white except for the gorgeous red of Marie’s shawl. Bertran had changed from his riding clothes into blue velvet trunks and waistcoat. His stiff black hair was fastened with a huge black velvet bow. The buckles on his velvet slippers sparkled like diamonds. They all laughed at him because he had put a black patch over his left eyebrow in imitation of a grown-up man-about-town. His face was so round and fat and he looked so young that such a very grown-up affair as a patch amused them all, especially Marie Josephine.

“We all know you are fourteen and that you will not be a Grand Seigneur for a great many years.” Marie Josephine smiled sweetly across at Bertran as she spoke and emphasized great.

“Is that so, Mademoiselle Spitfire,” Bertran answered, helping himself to salad as old Martin passed it to him. He spoke good-naturedly.

There was a wide silver candelabra in the center of the table, covered with a gold-colored silk shade. The delicate dishes and the silver flashed in the soft light. Above them the stars twinkled a good evening and a big, round September moon looked down.

“Is there no news of Neville, Martin?” Madame le Pont asked the old butler as he removed the cloth and put some silver dishes of nuts and a green bowl full of purple grapes on the table.

“No news, Madame, but it is early yet to-night,” Martin answered.

“I would not worry so much, Madame. It is bad traveling now and you know Neville may not have been able to get fresh mounts,” Bertran said to the governess with his most grown-up air.

“Do let us talk of something else. I’m so tired of having some one ask every five minutes if there is news of Neville,” Denise said.

Madame le Pont broke a bunch of grapes on her plate and ate one slowly. “We must hope for the best,” she said and they all laughed.

“You always say that Le Pont, darling, you know.” Marie Josephine put her hand caressingly on the governess’s arm as she spoke.

“I threw pennies to the hovel children outside the gates as Denise and I rode through the demesne. It was fun to see them grabbing in the dust for them. One of them, a tall, lanky boy, fairly wallowed in dust! I tell you, Madame, I laughed to see them, and wished I had more pennies for them,” Bertran said to the governess.

“There is no town where they can buy things, but when the bailiff comes to oversee, he will give them bread if they have money, poor things,” Madame le Pont answered.

Marie Josephine sat silently looking up at the stars for a moment. It was Grigge of whom Bertran had spoken, Grigge who was Jean’s cousin.

Martin had poured some sparkling yellow wine into the tall, thin glasses and Bertran stood up suddenly.

“To His Majesty, King Louis of France,” he said.

The others rose to their feet and said, “His Majesty the King.” Then they drank a little of the wine and sat down again.

They did not see that some one was coming slowly from the dark shrubbery at the side of the terrace. Martin saw him first and dropped a dish of apricots. Then the children and Madame le Pont all saw him at once, as he came up to the table. He was a bearded man in ragged clothes, a red cap on his head. They all sat perfectly still watching him, not one of them cried out. It was Bertran who spoke first. He stood up and faced the man.

“Who are you and what do you want?”

The man did not answer and Bertran said:

“Leave the presence of the ladies at once or I shall call the men on the place.” Bertran was frightened, but did his best to make his voice manly and convincing.

Suddenly Marie Josephine jumped up from the table, and ran up to the stranger.

“Why, don’t you know him? It’s Neville!” she cried. There was a half sob in her voice. Neville had come back. How was it that the others had not recognized him? She had known him by his eyes at once.

He spoke and then they all knew him. Bowing to the governess, he said:

“Your pardon, Madame, but unless I came in this disguise there was no way for me to come at all. I did not change before seeing you because it is best that you note well my disguise so that you will all know me again.”

His voice trembled and he sank on to a chair which old Martin pushed forward.

“Martin, bread and hot soup at once! The man is famished and exhausted. Bertran, pour some wine. There, that is well.” The governess came to Neville’s side and held the wine to his lips.

Bertran

Martin went for food and the others, filled with concern and interest, came up close to Neville.

When he could speak, Neville looked at Madame le Pont and said faintly:

“I would see you alone, Madame!”

Then it seemed as though they all spoke at once, crowding up to his chair.

“No, no, Neville, tell us also. Tell us all there is to know!”

“Tell us that maman and Lisle are well and safe.” Marie Josephine put her arm on Neville’s ragged coat as she spoke.

“Safe,” he answered. “Safe enough so far and there seems to be no real danger for them yet, but the city—ah, Madame, the city!”

“Yes, yes, tell us. What of the city?” It was the governess who spoke.

“Marat has control of everything. They have taken twenty thousand stand of arms from the homes of royalists and most of the royalists who could escape have done so, but now the city gates are closely guarded. The comtesse and Monsieur Lisle will not leave because, for one reason, your great-aunt, the Marquise du Ganne, is old and ailing. She cannot escape, and they could not leave her in the city as it is now. More than that, we see no way for them to escape, even if it should be that Madame du Ganne should not live!”

Neville fumbled in his pocket.

“I have a letter to you all from Madame la Comtesse and there is a note for Little Mademoiselle from Monsieur Lisle. It was not really safe to bring them but I took the risk.”

He brought out the two notes, handing one to Madame le Pont and the other to Marie Josephine, who caught it and held it close to her heart, the red shawl falling to the ground at her feet unheeded. She opened it and read:

To My Sister Marie Josephine: Maman and I are deeply interested in the progress of our royalist armies and the good news that Austria has promised aid. This troublesome time is but for the moment. We are very comfortable with Henri to take care of us. How is Flambeau? My respects to Madame and the girls and greetings to Dian. See to it that you are patient and unafraid.

My love to you,

Lisle Georges Montfleur Saint Frère.

Postscript. Tell Dian I will have some stories to match his one day.

As Marie Josephine stood there under the stars, the letter clasped in her hands, the words that her mother had spoken on the morning that they had left for Les Vignes came back to her: “There may come a time later on when it will not be so easy to get away!”

Chapter VIII
 
HUMPHREY TRAIL

“Minuit!”

A little girl peered through the gloom of a dark alley, toward the rue Saint Antoine. Her thin, eager face looked anxious and her black eyes darted here and there in search of him who until very recently had been her best friend in all the world, Minuit, an alley cat!

“It’s time to go to bed, ma mie. Come to Vivi,” she called again and suddenly from out of the greyness of the deserted alley, a gaunt, long shape appeared. It was Minuit and when he saw Vivi he ran up to her with a welcoming meow. She stooped and gathered him into her arms, hugging him close to her.

“I’ve been alone all day, for the fat, funny man told me I’d best stay inside to-day. He will be coming soon with my supper.” While she was speaking she was making her way back to an open door through which a faint light was gleaming. She was so used to being alone with Minuit that she found it natural to talk to him as though he were a person.

A jangle of rough voices came down the alley from the shoemaker’s shop on the corner of the rue Saint Antoine. Vivi was not at all frightened of the voices or their owners, for she knew them. They had been friends of her father and he would have been with them, talking far into the night, had he not been killed the summer before by some pieces of lumber from the big pavilion falling on him. The pavilion had been erected after the storming of the Tuileries and he had been one of hundreds who had offered to help put it up. He was a licorice water seller by profession and all that he had left Vivi of worldly goods was his tin tray and the cups dangling from it. She hoped to make some sous in the spring selling the cooling drink in the streets. Now that the cold weather had come, no one was thirsty enough to drink licorice water, and if it had not been for the fat, foreign stranger, who had taken the room above her and who never failed to bring her something to eat when he came in at night, she would have had to go down the alley to beg a bit of bread from the shoemaker.

She went through the open door, climbed a short flight of rickety stairs, and opened a door at the right of the first landing. The room she entered was small and bare. There was a cot in one corner covered with a piece of sacking, a deal table close to a tiny, rude fireplace, and a chair. Some pieces of a broken box lay on the floor near the fireplace. Vivi went over to the cot and put Minuit down on it. Then she went over to the cupboard and threw open its rickety door. There was nothing at all to eat in the cupboard and Vivi made a face at it. She had never heard of Mother Hubbard, but she must have felt very much like her as she saw the bare boards and heard Minuit’s entreating meow.

“Never mind, Minuit, the fat man will bring us something to eat. Let us go to sleep under the sacking until he comes.” She picked Minuit up in her arms as she spoke and going to the cot, curled up on it under the sacking. Before she knew it, she and her purring friend were fast asleep.

Vivi was awakened by a loud scrambling of rats. She could hear them fighting and chasing each other through the wall as she sat up on the cot and rubbed her eyes. She jumped up and, drawing the cot close to the dusty window with its small jagged corner of broken glass, leaned forward so that she could see down the alley as far as the rue Saint Antoine at the end of it. She did not have to wait very long before she saw a short, stout figure in a long cloak and wide hat coming toward her through the dusk.

It was the figure of Humphrey Trail, or “the fat, funny man,” as Vivi spoke of him to Minuit. He gave a little knock on the door and came in, bringing a rush of cold wind with him. He had a bundle in his arms and going over to the table he put it down, yawned, and looked at Vivi. She came slowly toward him, trying not to look too eagerly at the table. Her rough black hair flapped about her face as she pulled up a chair for him. When he had sat down in it, she jumped up on the table beside him.

“I told Minuit you would bring something,” she said, smiling at him. He smiled back at her, opening the bundle which was done up in brown paper.

“Food we shall have, tha and I and tha friend th’ cat,” said Humphrey, tearing off the paper and bringing forth its contents, a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese. He felt in his pocket and drawing out his big jackknife, cut a generous slice of the bread and a good supply of cheese. He put the cheese astride the bread and handed it to his little friend with a bow.

Vivi nodded her gratitude. She was too busy taking big bites out of the bread and cheese to thank Humphrey in words. He was well pleased at her enjoyment of the simple meal and took his own share with a relish. Minuit was not forgotten either and ate his portion greedily. Humphrey spoke to him apologetically.

“Tha shall have tha dish o’ milk one day when milk is easier got, beastie,” he said. Minuit, who had not tasted milk since the days of his infancy, did not seem to be at all put out because of the present lack of the beverage. He jumped up on to the table beside Vivi and began to lick his paws. Humphrey Trail balanced himself uncomfortably on the rickety chair as he ate his supper. He had had only a bowl of hot soup in a small café on the rue Royale at noon, and he was as hungry as his two companions. As he ate he thought deeply and hardly heeded Vivi when she went over to the cot. His French was so limited that they could only hold brief conversations.

Minuit gave Humphrey’s arm a soft bump with his head to remind him that he was holding an uneaten bit of cheese in his hand. Humphrey gave him the cheese, accompanied by a pat on the head. Then he relapsed into thoughtfulness again. He sat a long time at the deal table with his plump, round face propped up on his two hands. He was thinking of Lisle Saint Frère and of the great house where he lived and of all that had passed since he had snatched the boy from the spinner’s cart, when he had called out, “God save King Louis!” What awful things had happened in Paris since that night of the tenth of August when the gallant Marseillais had stormed the Tuileries and awakened Paris to action! Ah, that had been a great day for the people! They were worth-while men, those Marseillais who had cheered their long march across France with their own songs, who had come in their simplicity and valor to avenge their wrongs, to start a new era of liberty for the people, but who had not known, alas! that innocent people would so cruelly suffer, that Paris would go mad.

He had made his decision to remain in Paris on that August night, as he paced up and down his room at the Croix d’Or. He would stay on, even if his staying might mean his death. His heart bled for the people of France who had been starved and taxed and unjustly treated for centuries and he had rejoiced when he heard the new song of liberty shouted in the streets:

“Allons enfants de la patrie,

Le jour de gloire est arrive!”

Humphrey would have answered, if any one had asked him, that he had remained in France to “see the fun,” but this was not so. There was Vivi, who depended on him for her daily bread, and there was some one else who might need his help also. He knew in his own mind that it was greatly because of this some one else that he had decided to stay. The some one else was Lisle.

Humphrey roused himself and got up, wrapped the bread and cheese carefully in brown paper, and, going over to the cupboard, put them on a shelf. It made him happy to supply food for little Vivi. He had come across her in a strange way. He had witnessed the accident at the pavilion which had caused the death of her father. The poor man had been selling his licorice water when the timbers from the pavilion fell on him. While some one went to get a cart in which to take him to a hospital, Humphrey held the man in his arms and spoke to him in his poor French. Afterward he had visited him at the hospital, and just before the man died, promised to look after his little girl. Humphrey had picked up the man’s tray and tin cups and given them to Vivi. He moved into the attic room above hers, so as to be able to look after her. His good action proved a safeguard to himself, for all foreigners at inns were being questioned and put under suspicion, and his days at the Croix d’Or would have been numbered had he remained.

Humphrey had sat down again at the table and he remained there for a long time, deep in thought. Suddenly he was startled by sounds of wild laughter and shouting from the rue Saint Antoine, as groups of citizens danced by. They were shouting a new and terrible song:

“Dansons la Carmagnole,

Vive le son du canon!”

Humphrey stood up, wrapped his snuff-colored cloak about him, and picking up his wide hat, went out, closing the door softly behind him. He made his way through the alley to the noisy rue Saint Antoine and went on swiftly through the dark, wintry streets. Everywhere were hurrying masses of people. Snatches of the “Ça Ira,” the favorite song of the crowds, could be heard on all sides and wild, dark faces under scarlet caps peered out of the gloom. He turned in at a brightly lighted shop on the rue Royale. It was the bakery shop where he had bought for Vivi the first cake that she had ever eaten. Now he wanted to buy her another.

On the first days of his visit to the great city, Humphrey had come to this bakery several times, in order to indulge in his love for sweets. It had once been very fashionable. Less than a year before, it had been filled with smart lackeys, who carried charming boxes of maroons or candied grapes to their ladies’ sedan chairs. Now no such finery was seen. Instead the shop was patronized by honest farmer people from the country and rich merchants of the city who were heart and soul in sympathy with the revolution, never dreaming that their turn to suffer was coming soon.

The baker woman still sold her neat rows of cherry tarts. On the wooden gallery above, talkative groups drank their eau citron and enjoyed the good cakes. Humphrey eyed the pile of puffy brioche set out on a tray next to a gleaming pile of fruit confits, and he wondered what to buy for Vivi. He felt guilty in buying anything but bread, but he could not resist the pleasure he would be giving Vivi, who had never had any sweets in all her life. Humphrey admired Vivi because she had been so brave when her father died, and because she could smile when she was hungry!

As he stood there undecided, the shop door opened with a clang, and turning his head, Humphrey saw a boy enter and stand near him at the counter. After a moment, he realized that it was Lisle. He wore a shabby black suit which had evidently belonged to a groom, his locks were tied back with a bit of black tape, and the cap which he held in his hands was a dismal, ragged one. He was evidently attempting a disguise, but it was a poor one, and when Humphrey heard him ask the woman for the cakes, his heart sank. Lisle’s attempt to change his voice was more futile than his attempt to change his garb.

“I want a cake for a little girl, citizen, something simple but very good,” Lisle said to the bakery woman.

“You want a cake, do you!” she waved her hand above a tray of cream pastries, surrounded by green “cauliflowers” of almond flavor. Her black eyes took in his appearance as she cried her wares. “Here are tartlets, choufleur. Choose what you will!”

Humphrey felt an odd mixture of emotion as he stood there with his back to Lisle. Lisle was a large part of his adventure, and his chief reason for staying on in Paris. He had never forgotten the sight of the boy on top of the spinner’s cart, waving his cap and shouting for the king. He had been sent to be his friend. The little incident that occurred when he had let Lisle go his way, after he had rescued him, had made him sure of it. He had watched Lisle and seen him stop and start back, then pause uncertainly and go on again. Something in the action touched Humphrey’s big heart. The boy had needed his counsel, but his pride and independence had forbidden his asking it. Since then Humphrey had gone each night and stood for an hour in the shadow of the wall at the side of the great house of the Saint Frères.

“What cakes will you choose? My time is not forever at your disposal,” the bakery woman said impatiently.

Lisle regarded the cakes soberly.

“I want something simple for a little girl,” he repeated.

“I have just the thing, a plain sponge with white icing. You shall see.”

The woman moved away to reach the cakes at the back of a shelf just behind her. Lisle turned round and, seeing Humphrey Trail, at once gave him a smile of greeting. Humphrey made no sign of recognition. The woman returned with the cakes saying:

“They are three sous apiece. How many?”

Lisle answered, “I wish to have three.” He put his hand in the pocket of his rough over-jacket and, drawing forth some coins, counted out the desired amount and handed it to the woman. When she had given him the small package he went out. Without waiting to buy his cake, Humphrey Trail followed him.

Humphrey was angry as he walked out of the bakery shop. They were a little in awe of him at home in the farmlands when his easy-going temper was aroused. He came up to Lisle and spoke to him without ceremony.

“Th’ art mad, lad, I tell thee, to buy cakes at a shop where spies eat and there are eyes in every corner. Th’ art a poor fool at play actin’ with tha soft speech and ways. Get tha home and, for tha mother’s sake, stay within tha house!”

They had walked slowly along the crowded rue Royale. Lisle turned and looked at his companion and suddenly he smiled.

“I like you, Humphrey Trail,” he said.

Humphrey felt his temper cooling, and as they turned into a quieter street he slackened his pace. Nothing could have happened more timely than Humphrey’s losing his temper. Had there been any vestige of suspicion as to Humphrey’s sincerity in Lisle’s mind, it vanished forever with his honest scolding.

“I like tha well myself, lad, but see that tha ken sense with tha manly ways,” Humphrey said in answer.

“It is the first time I have been there, Humphrey Trail. Our friend, Rosanne de Soigné, is staying with my mother and me. I was buying cakes for her.”

“Th’ little girl can do well without sweets these sad days if it will save her life,” he answered. As he spoke a deep sense of responsibility fell on him and then he felt a warm glow of thankfulness that the boy trusted him and was confiding in him.

They had reached the Saint Frère house and Lisle turned and held out his hand.

“I have been glad of your company, Humphrey Trail. I know you are honest, and just now there is no one else in all Paris whom I can trust.”

“Tha can trust me, lad, that tha can. Can tha remember the name of my lodging? Listen well. It is in the Impasse Forné, just off the rue Saint Antoine, the fourth turn to the right from the corner where the women are making waste for the guns. Tha cannot fail to find it and any message sent there will reach me. I shall not be far and I shall be ready to serve tha well.”

Humphrey shook Lisle’s hand warmly there in the shadow of the great house.

“In all Paris, you are my only friend, Humphrey Trail,” Lisle answered.