Red Caps and Lilies
Date: 2014-04-27T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: France -- History -- Revolution; 1789-1799 -- Juvenile fiction; Children and war -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Red Caps and Lilies

Author: Katharine Adams

Illustrator: Jay Van Everen

Release date: April 27, 2014 [eBook #45511]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Roger Frank, Denis Pronovost and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RED CAPS AND LILIES ***

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.

Chapter IX

DIAN

Dian the shepherd was always welcome at Mother Barbette’s fire. He sat before it on a chilly December afternoon, warming his hands at a piled-up heap of briskly-burning fagots. Jean had gathered them during the autumn months, and they were stacked in neat piles in the back of the room. Rows of onions were strung on lines along the ceiling, and there were bowls of good fig jam on a shelf by the door. Mother Barbette was prepared for what she felt would be a hard winter.

She was making a stew for supper and she was wishing that it might have been a good one. She peered into the stock pot above the fire and sighed. It was not a savory mixture that met her eyes. The stew was made mostly of hot water and pieces of bread, to which she had added a cup of milk, some salt, and a bit of garlic. She had eaten the stew all her life, but always before she had had a piece of veal or pork to add to it.

Dian the shepherd sniffed the stew delightedly.

“It’s good to know that there will soon be food,” he said. He often shared the Barbettes’ supper and sometimes brought them meat which he obtained from a near-by farmer in exchange for some of the cheese for which he himself was famous. He never ate meat but seemed content always with a cup of milk and a piece of bread.

“You are always of good heart and seem content with anything that comes your way, Dian.” Mother Barbette poured some soup into a blue bowl as she spoke and handed it to the shepherd. He took it, bowing his head over it and closing his eyes for a moment. Then he ate it slowly, the firelight playing on his long, straggling, red locks and work-worn hands and lighting up his earnest, bronzed face.

“There’s a quietness about you, Dian. You are one of few words, but, if I mistake not, you think more than the most of us,” Mother Barbette continued. She sat down on a stool by the fire and began to mend Jean’s little coat.

“There will be snow soon,” the shepherd gave answer. He ate his stew slowly, for he was thinking deeply. He did not notice that Jean had come into the room until the boy came close to the fire. Then he made room for him on the settle.

“Tell us a good tale, please, Dian,” pleaded Jean, snuggling up to the shepherd, for the cold wind blew through the little house and, even by the fire, it searched out one’s toes and ears.

Mother Barbette eyed her son severely.

“There is never a moment of the day that you think of aught but to amuse yourself. You can do little more than read and write, and you can thank Dian that you accomplish even that much.” Mother Barbette spoke with feeling. It seemed as though Jean would never grow up, he was so merry of heart and so untouched by trouble. Her heart was sad enough, for she knew that, since Neville had come back two months previous, there had been no message from Madame Saint Frère and Lisle. They were hoping daily for the coming of another messenger. Dian had spoken of snow. That would mean bad traveling! Mother Barbette sighed as she patched the little coat. She knew that, though there were stores in the cellars at Les Vignes, there was very little ready money.

There was a sudden rap on the door. An instant later it opened, and in ran Marie Josephine. Mother Barbette rose to her feet and came toward the child, a look of concern on her broad face.

“Little Mademoiselle, what is it? You have come alone through the wood!” she exclaimed.

Dian stood up, and Jean jumped about the room in sheer delight, for Marie Josephine laughed as she gave Mother Barbette a hug.

“I came for some fun,” she said, “and because I was tired of them all, even of Cécile, that is, not of her, but of her long face. You are not to scold me, dear Mother Barbette, because I ran alone through the woods.” She danced over to Dian and went on speaking eagerly. “I am glad that you are here, Dian. Jean and I were saying only the other day that it was so long since you had told us a story, not since we went last to meet you when you came home from the pasture. I will sit on one side of you and Jean on the other, and if we are very good, will you not tell us something?”

Dian smiled a slow smile that lighted up his face and sat down again on the settle. Marie Josephine and Jean snuggled down on each side of him, and Mother Barbette went over to her stool, took up the coat and her needle and darning cotton, and smiled across at them. The Little Mademoiselle could only stay with them a short time, for she would soon be missed at Les Vignes, but it was a blessing to have her there with them. Mother Barbette’s kind heart swelled with love for the two playmates sitting beside the good shepherd. She had been right when she had said that Dian was a man of few words, but one who thought a great deal. Many of his thoughts he told to the children when they walked back with him to the sheepfold. Marie Josephine often thought of these walks with Dian during the long, sedate months in Paris in the winter. Sometimes she could almost smell the sweetness of the tufted meadow and hear the evening call of the larks.

Dian sat quietly in the firelight, his black, smocklike apron falling about his knees.

“You would have a tale, would you, Little Mademoiselle, you and Jean? Then it shall be as you will. I will tell you of what I was thinking as I walked back from the hill crest to-night and while I was fastening the sheepfold gate.” He paused a moment and, as he sat gazing into the flames, there was a look of great earnestness in his eyes, and of great sadness, too.

“Yes, yes! tell us, good Dian, tell us. We love your stories, Jean and I. We often talk of them together and we never forget any of them—'The Purple Sun’ and 'The Grey Hill’ and 'The Waterfall That Sang’—we love every one of them.”

Marie Josephine sat back contentedly. Nothing could happen to Lisle, nothing in the world. They would all be together in the spring. She knew that the governess and the older girls talked together very seriously when she was not present. Even her beloved Cécile seemed grave and preoccupied, and she felt that she did not confide in her any more. Denise and Bertran still rode gaily through the demesne and danced in the great drawing-room at Les Vignes in the evening. She was more and more with Jean. She knew that Lisle would be disgusted with her if she moped about, so she tried to be as happy as she could. She was really happy this cold November night, enjoying the little adventure of having run away to the cottage.

“I hope they will worry and fuss about me,” she thought to herself, which was of course very naughty of her. Then she closed her eyes there in the soft firelight and listened to Dian’s story.

“This isn’t a real story, Little Mademoiselle; it is only a fancy of mine. I was thinking to-night, as I walked home in the sunset, of a young lad of noble birth, who lived many years ago, here in France, in the time of the long-ago King Louis XI. It was the time of knights in armor and of deep dungeons. It was a time like the present, when every man’s hand was raised against his brother. All the long way home it seemed as though this young lad walked beside me. He was clothed in blue and silver and his hair was like the corn when it is ripe. There was a falcon on his wrist because he was one of the king’s pages of the hunt. Many a night he had held a torchlight for the king and had shouted, 'Hallali!’ when the greedy pack caught the poor stag. He was a gallant youth and a brave one, though he was so young that he had never seen sixteen years. He loved to run with his fellow pages through the forest at dawn and to throw the javelin with them at sunset. He was also a true and loyal knight. One day, because he loved his king, he was carried away to a dungeon and no one knew where he had gone.”

Dian stopped speaking and sat looking into the dying fire, his hands spread out upon his knees. Jean ran over to a wooden box by the door and came back with his arms filled with fagots. He threw them on the fire and the sudden burst of flames made the pewter utensils above the mantel shine like diamonds and brought out the crimson gleam of the woven rug that covered Mother Barbette’s four-poster bed. Pince Nez, the crow, who had been asleep with his head cocked on one side, woke suddenly and gave a solemn croak. When he croaked Mother Barbette gave a little start and sat up. She had been fast asleep and had not heard more than a word or two of what Dian had been saying.

Pince Nez

Jean ran back to the settle after he had put on the wood and sat down in his place by the shepherd’s side. He smiled across at Marie Josephine with his merry black eyes. “We like the story, do we not, Little Mademoiselle?” he asked her. She sat looking down at her hands which were folded in her lap. She did not answer him or look up at him, for there were tears in her eyes and she did not want any one to see them. While Dian had been talking she had been thinking with all her might. She had begun to suspect that he was speaking of Lisle, and as he went on she became sure of it.

“There was a cowherd on the lands where the young page lived,” Dian went on. “This cowherd was sorely grieved at the trouble that had come to his master. He thought of the page night and day. He wished more than he had ever wished anything that he might find a way to rescue him, and he whispered the wish as a prayer to the sun and the stars.”

A knock broke in on the quiet earnestness of the shepherd’s voice and the next instant the door opened and Neville came inside. He was wind-blown and breathless.

“You are here, Little Mademoiselle, and that is well. The young ladies and Madame le Pont were uneasy about you. Madame le Pont requested me to say that you were to come at once.”

The shepherd stood up and reached for his cloak from the back of the settle. He was a taller man than Neville and had the look of one who had lived always in the open, close to the secrets of beasts and birds. Neville wore again his wig and his familiar house uniform of red and gold. It did not seem possible that he could ever have worn the queer, shabby disguise in which he had come back from Paris. He looked very pale and ill. No one but the shepherd knew of the dire peril through which the faithful man had passed in order to return with the message from the comtesse and to protect the little group at Les Vignes. Dian knew, and there was something he had to say to him, so he put on his cloak and went with them.

The wind shrieked eerily as Marie Josephine walked through the forest, with Neville and Dian on each side of her. Mother Barbette had wrapped her cloak about her and pulled the cape up over her curls. She walked quietly, holding Dian’s hand so that he might steady her steps over the fallen branches of trees or the sudden twists of roots here and there. Neville’s lanthorn cast a dancing light ahead of them.

Marie Josephine was thinking deeply. Could it be that she was the same laughing, mischievous girl who had run away after dinner, leaving the others in the great firelit drawing-room? She had tried to be happy because she could not believe that anything could happen to those she loved. Now, suddenly, she was awake, and because it was her nature to do things thoroughly she was very much awake indeed. She knew, as she walked back under the moonless sky toward Les Vignes, where the lights shone faintly, that she would never be the same little girl again. Dian had been speaking of Lisle. He had not said so, but she knew it. Dian felt that Lisle was in danger. There was no use in being happy or playing in the woods with Jean any longer. She must be awake. It might be that there was something she could do!

She heard the clock strike eleven that night, and then twelve. She had lain awake for three hours listening to the thin branches of walnut trees swishing and flapping against her windows. When the clock struck twelve she sat up in bed and listened. She had opened the window a little way because she loved to feel the sweet, chill wind. She heard voices quite distinctly by the side of the house. Some one spoke in a low tone, and a voice answered that she knew right away was Dian’s.

“It is right that I should be the one to go. I have left a message for the governess. Tell her not to fear. I shall reach them sometime safely.” Whether because the wind changed freakishly, or because the voices had gone on down the driveway, Marie Josephine did not hear another word. She jumped out of bed and ran to the window and, kneeling, peered out. There was no one about, and she did not hear anything now, except the moan of the forest and the wail of the wind.

She turned her head as she knelt against the window casement and there, coming toward her, was Cécile. How it happened Marie Josephine did not quite know, but the next moment she was sobbing with Cécile’s arms about her. Before she realized it she was in bed, tucked up warmly, with Cécile close beside her. She told Cécile of Dian’s story and then of the words she had just overheard, and she knew that Cécile was very excited though she spoke quietly.

“Do you think it can be that Dian has gone to-night to Paris? Do you think that is what I overheard, Cécile?” Marie Josephine asked her friend, who answered steadily:

“I think that Dian has gone, and we must pray that he can help them.”

Cécile’s long braid of fair hair fell across her shoulders over her velvet robe. She put her face down on the pillow beside Marie Josephine and they both lay looking out at the late moon which showed fleetingly through white clouds.

“I thought you had deserted me for your little friend Jean. You seemed happy, just playing with him, and I was glad for you, but I have missed your company so much of late,” Cécile said softly.

“I thought you’d rather be with the others, and that you look upon me as a baby, the way the rest do,” Marie Josephine answered with a sob, putting her arms around Cécile.

“No, Marie, I sometimes think of you as being the oldest of us all, and the wisest. You think and dream when we are only sitting by and sewing. Perhaps it is because you are so close to the wild wood things—perhaps that is what makes you wise,” Cécile said.

“I’m not wise, but Dian is. He will take care of Lisle, I know he will.” Marie Josephine smiled confidently in the dark as she spoke.

She lay awake beside Cécile for a long time, Great-aunt Hortense’s tapestry covering them both. Dian was on his way through the wind-swept night. Cécile, too, was awake. She was thinking of Lisle in his blue velvet and diamonds and his jeweled sword, of the minuet which they had danced together at the bal masqué on that last strange, happy evening. Dian was on his way to help; for that she was thankful. Had she known of Humphrey Trail, in the dingy Paris alley room, she would have been more thankful still. Had she known of some of the plans in the mind of the friend who lay beside her in the great four-poster bed, she would have been astounded and alarmed!

Chapter X

IN THE SNOWSTORM

Dian heard the great clock on the stairs at Les Vignes boom out the twelve strokes of midnight as he said the few hasty words of farewell to Neville. He saw with satisfaction that the moon was out and that the wind was changing. He walked down the great driveway which led through the demesne. It was a good mile to the gates, but with his long, easy strides he covered the ground with amazing quickness. At the left was the dark outline of the wood and behind lay the wide terraces, grey and bare this late November night.

Dian turned to his left at the far end of the driveway and entered a narrow path bordered on each side by slim poplar trees, then he climbed through a narrow opening in a low hedge and found himself on the highroad. He walked quickly along until he came to the row of straggling huts to which Jean had brought the loaves of bread on the August night when he had tried to keep his cousin Grigge from taking one whole loaf for himself.

He knocked softly on the door of one of the huts and waited, listening. After a moment he heard a sound from within and then the door opened slightly and a gaunt, thin face showed itself. It was the face of Grigge, and when he saw the shepherd standing there, he came outside, closing the door softly behind him. He had on the same old, shabby work clothes that he had worn all day, having lain down for the night on his heap of straw without removing them, glad of the little warmth they afforded him.

“Dian!” he exclaimed softly. “Dian! Where are you going?”

The shepherd put his sack on the ground and, feeling in the inside pocket of his cloak, brought out a goatskin purse and handed it to the boy, who took it wonderingly.

“I am going on something of a journey, Grigge, and I am leaving my sheep in your care. I am trusting them to you and I know that in spite of your wild ways, lad, you will keep them faithfully for me. Let them pasture until the snow comes and then be on guard for the wolves. Here is a bit of money, only a bit. Mother Barbette will give you bread when she has it to give, but there will not be overmuch for her and Jean. Farmer Lessoir will sell you flour, such as it is. You must see to it that your mother and the young children have their share.”

Dian put his hand kindly on Grigge’s shoulder, and he saw that the color had come into the boy’s cheeks at his words. Grigge caught hold of the edge of the shepherd’s cloak and looked up at him imploringly, for it seemed as though he could not bear to say good-by to the one person in all the world whom he loved and trusted.

“Oh, do not go away and leave me, Dian. It is awful to think of the winter’s coming. What shall I do without you, Dian! No one will have aught to do with me but you.” Grigge turned up the frayed collar of his poor jacket as he spoke, for the chill air swirled about him unmercifully.

“You are to be a man while I am away. Try to be brave and to add a little comfort to the lives of your poor mother and your brothers and sisters. Go to your aunt for counsel. She is a good woman and means well by you all.” Dian lifted his sack as he spoke and threw it over his shoulder.

“I’m not welcome there. I’ll have naught to do with them,” Grigge answered sullenly, but realizing that his friend was about to depart he caught his cloak again. “I’ll do well by the sheep, and I’ll try to think of the others when the hunger is tearing at my heart. Will you not tell me where you are going and why you leave this way in the stillness of the night?”

Dian shook his head. “That I cannot do, Grigge, but if the good God will it, I shall come back again. Remember all I have said and guard my sheep well, for they are dear indeed to me. Hold your courage through the winter. Who knows what good may come by spring!” He touched the boy’s shoulder in farewell and was off down the wide road.

Grigge

Grigge gazed after him, his hands clasped together, a sob catching his throat. It seemed as though all that he knew of kindliness and comradeship was going farther and farther from him down the wind-swept road. He had never known anything in his life but discomfort. He had always been hungry and in winter he had always been cold. He was rough and selfish and sullen and he knew it and most of the time did not care. But as he stood there that night by the low door of his wretched home, Grigge determined to be different! He went inside, and the wind slammed the door behind him before he could catch it. The noise awoke his little sister Letta, who whined, “It is cold; it is cold.”

“You are no colder than the rest of us,” Grigge answered roughly, but, after hesitating a moment, he put the piece of shawl over her and then tumbled down on to his mound of straw by the door.

Dian hardly heeded the weather as he quickly covered the ground. His thoughts were with the lad he had left and the sad lot of the people who lived at the very gates of a great house. He felt sad at heart, but said to himself, as he had often done before, “There is no use in your grieving for them, for that will not help them, and to help them is your dearest wish.” Grigge was only one of thousands of young lads who were made old and bitter by lack of food and the injustice that bound their lives. Dian knew little of the great conflict that was raging in Paris or of the armies massing throughout the land. He knew that the people, who for centuries had been overtaxed and overburdened by the arrogance and indifference of the nobility, had at last risen in revolt, but he did not know that they were being governed by bad, unscrupulous men and that there was no longer either law or order or justice in Paris or in other parts of France. He had thought that it was right for him to go to Paris, having had a feeling, for many days past, that the young Comte Lisle, whom he loved, was in danger. So he had made his simple preparations, telling only Neville, whom he knew to be faithful, where he was going.

The evening on which Dian told the children, in Mother Barbette’s cottage, about the young page in blue and silver was a wintry one in Paris. The snow had begun to fall, slanting mistlike through dreary alleyways. Although it was only a slight scurry and melted almost as soon as it touched the ground, it covered, for a little while, much of the soot and grime, making a fairy tracery about the roofs of the old houses. The sleet blew in a rakish, zigzag way across the alley where Vivi lived and far down the dim street beyond it. Curving northward, it swirled past close-shut shop windows and gaunt, noisy tenements, until it reached the great square in the middle of which stood the guillotine!

Then, in a sort of frenzy, it rioted down a wide avenue, spending itself at last against the windows of a house, close shut behind iron gates, in a quiet corner of Paris.

Lisle Saint Frère and Rosanne de Soigné were spending the evening in the great drawing-room in front of the fire. Rosanne knelt by the dying flames, peering at some nuts which she was roasting in a bed of coals. Her fair hair fell about her shoulders, and she had on the same white frock which she had worn on the night that she and Marie Josephine hid in the balcony. She shivered in spite of the fact that she wore a little velvet jacket over her frock.

“One of them is almost ready to pop. That’s yours. Wouldn’t it be a jolly thing if we could roast one for Marie Josephine?” As she spoke Rosanne leaned forward and picked out the nut with a pair of long bronze tongs and laid it on the iron fender to cool. She had stayed with Lisle and his mother ever since her mother had gone to nurse her father. Events had crowded thick and fast after the departure of the others for Pigeon Valley. Madame de Soigné had had just time to get away before the gates were closely guarded, and her departure had been made possible only because of an excellent disguise. There had been no word from her, and Lisle and his mother did what they could to keep Rosanne from feeling the anxiety which they themselves experienced. She never left the house and they told her nothing of what happened in the city. She was used to believing what she was told, but she thought a great deal about it all, and she was more troubled than they knew.

“Do you think we shall be going to Pigeon Valley soon, Lisle?” she asked suddenly.

Lisle shook his head, eating the nut gingerly, for it was still hot. He and Rosanne had not known each other very well in the old days, but they had become fairly well acquainted in the three months that they had been together. Lisle did not find Rosanne half as interesting as the little sister whom he missed so much, but he liked her, and he had a protecting feeling for her. She was his responsibility, just as his mother was, and he wanted to do his best for both of them. This was what made things so hard for him, having to be careful for their sakes. What adventures he could have if he were alone!

The days had been dull enough, in spite of all the happenings in the city, and time dragged heavily. They had had no word from Neville since he had left for Pigeon Valley, and the longing to hear from, the others at Les Vignes seemed sometimes more than they could bear, but each hid his emotion from the other. They had been taught to do this always, and now their training was making it easier for them to seem cheerful.

“Do you think we can go to Pigeon Valley in the spring, Lisle? Please answer me,” Rosanne persisted. When Lisle still did not reply, she went on, trying to hide the tremble in her voice: “It is just as Marie Josephine said. You think that you are so very grown-up. You will not tell me of all you fear. I know that we are in great trouble. I’ve thought more about it since yesterday morning when Madame Saint Frère went to your Great-aunt Hortense, who is so very ill. There were tears in your mother’s eyes. I saw them. She is only to be away for a few days, and yet she did not like to leave us. Tell me, Lisle, please tell me all about it. I know it is a revolution and that I may not go out on the street to walk or ride and that the servants have left us and dear maman has not sent me any word since she went to papa. Tell me, Lisle, is it all so dreadful?”

Rosanne came and stood looking up at Lisle, her brown eyes eagerly watching his blue ones as he answered her.

“It’s a bad time,” he said slowly. “It can’t last much longer. Yes, it is a revolution and there is danger for some people, but we are safe enough. There is no reason why we should fear.” Lisle was glad that Rosanne had spoken. It made them seem more like comrades and he found that it was a relief to talk over the situation. He saw that she was missing his mother and he felt vaguely that he must try to divert her. He, too, missed his mother, but of course he would not admit it even to himself. The comtesse had shown a softer side than any he had ever seen before during the past months that they had been alone. The three had sat for long hours by the fire and she had told of the gay, careless times when she had been a girl, when there had been nothing but gay balls and gilded sedan chairs, laughter and satins to make up her days. Now all her friends were gone, many being imprisoned in the Abbaye or other prisons of Paris, some having escaped to England, some to different parts of France, all because they and their ancestors had oppressed the people.

Rosanne was right when she said that Lisle’s mother had not wanted to leave them even for a few days. Great-aunt Hortense was ill and she had sent her servant with a note begging her great-niece to come to her bedside. She lived only a few squares away.

“Don’t worry, mother, we shall do quite well, Rosanne and I. Henri will look after us as to food, and you’ll find us roasting nuts by the fire when you come back. I shall take good care of Rosanne,” Lisle had assured his mother.

The comtesse had put both her slender hands on his shoulders as she answered him. “And of yourself, my son, my only son, my beloved,” she had said. Lisle and Rosanne had thought often, since she left, of her emotion.

“Teach me the gavotte steps again, Lisle. I shall soon be able to dance quite well.” Rosanne held out her hand as she spoke. “I can hum the melody again like this. Let us see if we can do it all the way through!”

Lisle thought it a rather silly thing to do, but he was uneasy about Rosanne’s missing his mother, and he felt that it was his duty to keep her cheerful. He found that he enjoyed the dance, for he directed his companion in the different measures and he liked telling people how to do things.

“You bow so beautifully, Lisle. You are just like the cavaliers on Monsieur Watteau’s fans,” Rosanne exclaimed admiringly, as they reached the end of a measure.

“You will soon do very well if you will keep your mind on it,” Lisle answered as they hummed the bewitching melody of the last measure and took their positions to begin.

Rosanne colored with pleasure. She would never have dreamed six months before that she would be dancing with Lisle Saint Frère. She thought of the August night when she and Marie Josephine had watched him from the balcony as he danced with her cousin Cécile. What would Lisle think if he knew what a very naughty thing they had done? Sometime it would be fun to tell him!

As he danced, Lisle thought of something else his mother had said: “I would have so little fear if I were leaving you with Neville. We can trust him always, but we do not know, even though he has seemed faithful, whether or not we can always trust Henri.” Lisle had said nothing then to his mother. Much as he would have liked to have reassured her, he did not trust Henri and never could pretend that he did.

There was yet another thing that Lisle was thinking about. It made him say to himself sternly: “You should be ashamed to let yourself fancy such things. It is not fit that one who soon will go out to fight for the king and queen should have silly fancies.” This is what Lisle called his fancy. He had gone several times to the bakery where he had seen Humphrey Trail, and twice of late he thought that on his return he was being followed! He liked going to the bakery. He would sit at one of the glass tables enjoying his eau sucré and a méringue and watching the well-to-do merchants’ wives, who for the time being had nothing to fear, come and go. No one had seemed to notice him particularly. The bakery woman had looked at him a little curiously as she did up her crisp cakes in neat boxes. He always wore the shabby old groom’s suit and he never spoke, except to give his order and to buy the cakes for Rosanne.

Lisle had thought often of Humphrey Trail since the night that the farmer had given him the Saint Antoine address. The man had meant well. Of that Lisle was sure. There was comfort also in the thought that he could find Humphrey if he should need him. Nevertheless, he had not heeded Humphrey’s warning. He had continued to go to the bakery. It had been one of his few pleasures during those strange weeks so suddenly different from anything he had ever known. Never before had he eaten in a cake shop or bought things for himself. Everything was changing. Six months more and there would be no shop. The shoppers themselves would be hiding for their lives.

“Henri will be back soon with the meat, and then let us have supper in here by the fire,” suggested Rosanne as they stopped to rest from their dancing.

The fire had died down, and Lisle saw that there was no wood left in the wood box of hammered silver on the stone hearth. It was very cold and he noticed, now that they had ceased dancing, that Rosanne was shivering. Where was Henri? Why was he not taking care of them?

“I shall go out into the halls and call for Henri, and if I do not find him, I shall go to the cellars for some wood. Stay here by the little bit of fire that is left. I shall only be gone a few minutes,” Lisle said to Rosanne, and leaving her he went out into the great marble hall. He went over to the entrance door and, opening it, looked out at the fast falling snow. As he did so, he thought he saw something dark in the shadow of one of the lower doors, but when he peered again through the darkness and the sleet, there was nothing.

He closed the door and walked down the hall. He could hear Rosanne singing to herself in the drawing-room:

“La petite Jeannette avait un poupée mignonne,

Tra la la la, Tra la la la,
Elle chantait pour elle une joli chanson,
Tra la la la, Tra la la la.”

He called “Henri,” but there was no reply, and so he walked on down the hall, through a long corridor as Marie Josephine had done when she had gone to the secret cellar. He turned a corner, went down another corridor, opened a door, and descended a steep flight of stairs. He knew that they must have wood to last them until Henri should come in with their supper. He saw that the small door at the end of the cellar that led to the basement was open, a blast of cold wind drifting in. He stooped and picked up as much wood as he could carry. Then he stood up, holding the sticks against the dark velvet of his tunic. At that moment some one caught him firmly about the waist. The wood fell with a thump to the stone floor as his arms were tied quickly and skillfully behind him. He was lifted across some one’s shoulders, and a moment later felt the rush of cold wind in his face. Then his captor began to run with him, swiftly, through the fast falling snow!

Chapter XI

“THA MUST NOT CRY OUT, LASS”

Humphrey Trail called himself all sorts of names as he stood in the shadow near the side entrance to the Saint Frère house that night. The sleet was changing into snow which gave no evidence of abating. Humphrey tied his scarf closer about his throat and shifted from one fat leg to the other. What a goose he was to come every evening and stand in the shadow of such a gloomy, proud-looking house just because he was interested in being of service to the proud boy who lived within it, and who, perhaps, did not care a ha’penny whether he stood there in the sleet and wind or not!

It was a fortnight since Humphrey had seen Lisle in the bakery shop and had given him the Saint Antoine address. He had not seen him since and he could only comfort himself with the thought that the boy knew where to find him. It was hard for Humphrey, as he knew so little of all that was going on and did not dare to ask questions of any one. Once he had seen the servant Henri coming out of the bakery shop with a package, but he had felt it wiser not to speak with him. Lisle had said that they did not know whether or not they could trust Henri. Humphrey’s heart warmed as he remembered how the lad had confided in him that night outside the bakery shop. It comforted him as he stood there in the storm. He had changed his position so that instead of facing the side of the house, he faced the front. It was not wise as a rule to do this, or so he had felt, because the position was too public and open, even in the darkness, but to-night the blizzardy snow made it safe enough.

Poor Humphrey, how his heart thumped when suddenly voices caught his ear! He had no time to be alarmed for himself or to do more than stand close to the wall when these words reached him: “The door by the basement steps.” Then followed a sentence or two which Humphrey could not understand. Then he heard the words, “The girl!”

Two figures made their way down the side street, away from the house. Humphrey watched them until they were out of sight. Then, looking back at the great mansion, he saw that the entrance door was being opened by some one who seemed to find the process difficult, and the next moment a little girl peered out into the storm. She glanced up and down the street, trying, evidently in vain, to distinguish something besides the swirling snow. Then she went inside, and the heavy door closed behind her.

Humphrey at all times found it difficult to think quickly, but he knew that he must do so this one time. He could only surmise, from the few words which he had overheard, that Lisle had been seen in the cellar, or was to be decoyed there. The incident of the little girl’s coming to the door, as though in search of some one, convinced him that she was looking for Lisle. He thought he had recognized Henri in one of the men who had passed by him, but he was not sure. He wondered why they had gone away from the house, instead of entering it. He was thankful that they had not done so, but the fact was borne in upon him that Lisle had been abducted either by the men whom he had seen or by their accomplices. He felt fairly sure that they would return for Rosanne and, as he walked rapidly around the side of the house, he tried to think what it was best to do.

He found to his relief that the cellar door was open, and he slipped inside and made his way to the staircase, stumbling over the wood that Lisle had dropped. He climbed the stairs cautiously and passed quickly down the long corridors, pausing when he came to the great entrance hall. A door at one side stood open, and he could see a spacious, candle-lit room beyond. It was the salon, and as he entered it he saw the little girl standing by the fireplace. As he started to cross the room, he spoke so as not to startle her too much.

“Tha has nought to fear, little lady. 'Tis Humphrey Trail, and Monsieur Lisle has spoken of tha to me!” he said.

It was wise of Humphrey to speak so to Rosanne, for, instead of fear, she felt relief at once, and ran across the room to meet him, saying eagerly: “Where is Lisle? Yes, he spoke of you last night. He said he trusted you out of all Paris. He went to the cellar for wood quite awhile ago. He said to stay here, and I did for such a long time. Then I went to the hall and called him. He did not come, so I opened the front door and looked out. Where is Lisle, Humphrey Trail?” Rosanne’s voice broke as she put this question to the farmer, and she had to try very hard not to cry.

Humphrey beamed upon her, and there was something so reassuring in his smile that Rosanne smiled, too, through her tears. “Tha’ll be a brave lass for his sake and the sake of those tha hold dear. I’ll give my life to find tha lad, but now tha must come with me as quick as ever tha can. Tha must trust Humphrey Trail. If th’art not a brave girl, I canna help tha!”

While he was speaking Humphrey had gathered up a heavy, velvet drapery which lay across the inlaid mother-of-pearl table near the fireplace, and before Rosanne could think he had wrapped it around her. “The cold is bitter. I’ll hold tha close,” he said.

He lifted Rosanne in his arms and glanced back at the shadowy doorway. She put both her arms around him and looked up at him, her bewildered brown eyes shining bravely.

“I’m not afraid, Humphrey Trail, and I do trust you. You’ll take me to Lisle, won’t you? You’ll promise to find Lisle for me!” she said. He nodded and whispered:

“I’ll try!”

He moved cautiously across the room and when he reached the hall he paused, putting up his hand to warn Rosanne not to speak. He thought that he had heard a sound. As he stood there, holding Rosanne closely wrapped in the blue velvet table cover, he saw the front door open slowly, and he knew that those who had taken Lisle away had come back for Rosanne. He knew, too, that a great deal depended on her, and he spoke quietly in her ear.

“Tha has nought to fear. I know well how to take tha away but tha must not cry out, lass, not for a’ the world!” Rosanne nodded her head for answer, and Humphrey crept with her along the hall, keeping in the shadow until he came to the turn which took them down the long corridor. He began to run when he had turned the corner, and he did not stop until he reached the top of the cellar stairs. He knew that the men would find out at once that Rosanne was not in the salon and would begin to hunt for her. They might think that she had gone to the cellar to look for Lisle, knowing that he had gone there for wood, and they would follow. He was right.

It was necessary to take the steep stairs carefully, for it was very dark, and there were deep, worn places, like holes, in the stone steps. He nearly fell once, and had to stop to steady himself for a moment and to get his breath before he could go on. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he listened intently but heard no sound except the scurry of rats in the wall near them; so, lifting Rosanne to his shoulder and wrapping the table cover more closely about her, he went swiftly across the cellar and through the half-open door, out into the winter night.

He kept well in the shadow of the great house until he came to the side street, and then he started to run. As we know, he was short and fat, and Rosanne was not a very light weight. He kept up a sort of jogging trot, and, finally, feeling sure now that no one was pursuing them, he began to walk. The snow was so dense that he had little fear of being noticed by passers-by, and every now and then he stopped to rest. Once when he stopped Rosanne’s voice reached him from under the velvet mantle.

“I can walk quite well in spite of the storm, Humphrey Trail,” she said, but he answered:

“T’is wiser this way, lass. Th’art indeed a brave enough lass.”

Humphrey’s heart was sorely troubled. There was only one place that he could take Rosanne, and that was to his lodgings in the alley! He felt very helpless as they came into the rue Saint Antoine. The street seemed dreary and dingy, even through the lovely falling snow. He had come to Paris for the first holiday in all his work-a-day farmer’s life and one after another adventures had come to him, and with them the need to think and plan.

There was no time just then to think or plan, at least not until they were safe indoors. Humphrey, in spite of the storm, turned the right number of corners and reached the alley in safety. Once inside the door of his poor abode he placed Rosanne gently on her feet.

“Listen, little lady. This is but a poor place I bring tha to, poor indeed and cold, but it is safe and if tha can be brave and bear with it, tha will be helping me to find Master Lisle.” Humphrey spoke very earnestly, and Rosanne, although she could not see his face in the darkness of the chill hall, knew that he was waiting anxiously for her answer.

“I shall try to be brave so that you can find Lisle, Humphrey Trail,” she answered, and, putting her hand in his broad hard one, mounted the rickety staircase with him.

Humphrey opened the door on the first landing and called “Vivi.” A voice answered eagerly:

“Yes, yes!”

Humphrey came into the room with Rosanne’s hand in his. He closed the door and walked with Rosanne over to the window where Vivi was standing with Minuit in her arms. The two girls stared at each other. Vivi looked the longest, but it was not because she was any more surprised than Rosanne; it was only because Rosanne had been taught that it was not right to show one’s surprise too much, or to stare too openly at any one.

“Who is that?” Vivi asked, pointing at Rosanne over the dark curve of Minuit’s lean body.

Before he could answer Rosanne looked up at Humphrey and exclaimed:

“She’s a little like Marie Josephine! It’s odd, but she is!”

When Rosanne said this Humphrey felt a sudden great relief. Little Vivi would help him. He had not thought of that before. The two girls would help each other, each in her own way, lonely Vivi and lonely Rosanne, and in his big heart Humphrey vowed that he would take care of both of them.

“This is a new friend for you and Minuit, Vivi,” he answered. “She is cold and tired and she is lonely, too. Sit close by her here on the cot while I make up the fire. You should not have let it go out for I left you plenty of wood!”

Vivi and Rosanne sat down on the cot, glancing shyly at each other. Minuit sat on Vivi’s knee and looked distrustfully at Rosanne, who stroked his bony back timidly.

Humphrey went over to the rude fireplace, and after some puffing of his fat cheeks, and shoving of paper here and there, started a good blaze. When the wood was burning nicely he put a very small shovelful of coal on top of it. Then he came back and spoke to the two children on the cot.

“Listen well to what I say, please, tha in particular, Miss Rosanne, as, perhaps, I’d best be calling tha. Vivi does not understand much that I say. I am going abroad now for food. I may be back within a half hour. Th’art to bolt the door after me when I go, and th’art not to let any one in but me. Tha will know me because I’ll say 'Buns’ very loud outside the door. Tell Vivi what I have said to thee. Tell her she must na open to any one!”

Rosanne promised. “I’ll not let any one in who does not say 'Buns,’” she assured him, and again, to his relief, he saw that she was smiling. He went out and waited on the top stair until he heard the bolt turn.

Because of the unusual and exciting turn of events, Humphrey for once had not brought food to Vivi. He would buy the food now and go back with it to the girls. Then he would go up to his own room and think. He must have an hour to think, to consider, to plan. Rosanne de Soigné would be safe enough that night with Vivi, and they both would be warm and fed. He thought Rosanne might be safe there for some time. The next all important problem was Lisle Saint Frère, the boy with the proud face, who had told him that he trusted him out of all Paris! To find out who were his captors, to find where they had hidden him, to rescue him, and to bring him to safety—these were the things above all others that he must do. He would think out what was the best thing to do during the snowy night, while the rats scudded back and forth in the walls of the dark alley and the two girls slept cuddled close together in the room below, covered with the blue velvet table cover and the piece of torn sacking.

Rosanne would wake in the morning to find herself in the cold gloom of a poor tenement, but that night she had been too dazed and tired to take stock of her surroundings. She had eaten the bread which Humphrey had brought, and with it a piece of cheese. She had sat close to the fire with Vivi, and she had seen Vivi looking at her with the big, astonished black eyes that somehow were like Marie Josephine’s. The whole event of the evening had taken place so suddenly and unexpectedly. She and Lisle had been cosily roasting chestnuts by the fire one moment, and the next moment, so it seemed, he was gone, and Humphrey Trail had come and carried her off! It all seemed like a dream to her that evening, and she felt as though she would wake up at any moment. The dirty, dark room and the quiet, staring little girl did not seem real. But she liked Vivi and after the two girls had smiled at each other, they felt somehow like friends. Rosanne was very glad indeed that Vivi was there. She put her arm around Vivi, who sleepily did the same. Then she fell asleep and dreamt that she was running along the south terrace at Les Vignes with Marie Josephine and that the lilies were in bloom all along the way.

Chapter XII

DIAN MAKES A FRIEND

Dian had reached the gates of Paris and passed through. Though he did not in any way realize it, it was a remarkable thing that he had done. There had been a slight scrimmage among a flock of sheep at the west barrier when he came up to it, and much shouting and bad language had ensued. The guards at the gates were stupid, bad-tempered men, and they berated the market farmers loudly. Dian had called out to the flock in the tones so well known by his own sheep at home in Pigeon Valley. He knew well that the sheep would listen to him, and in an instant it seemed as though all the wild disorder among them had never been. They passed through the gates, and Dian went with them. There was no one in the motley crowd who did not think that he was their shepherd except the men who owned them, and they were glad enough to be out of the brawl! It had been easy enough to get into Paris, and Dian, with his simple faith, felt that when the right time came it would be easy to get out again.

His journey had not been difficult for he was used to every kind of weather and he loved the wind and the snow. He rested whenever he was tired, and he never minded sleeping in the corner of a barn, with his warm cloak wrapped snugly about him. He had brought food in his wallet, and whenever he had thought it wise, he had asked for a glass of warm milk. He walked with long strides, knowing well how to save himself unnecessary fatigue, and he thought not at all about his own welfare. He had never been in a city before in all his life, and had never seen large numbers of people together, and as he stood quietly on a street corner watching the wild tide of life that swept past him, he wondered greatly.

He had a hard task before him. He was thinking how best to perform it, as he stood in the shadow of a gabled shop door on this dark, brooding day. It was less than a week since Lisle had been carried away from his home and Humphrey Trail had brought Rosanne to be a friend to Vivi. To find Lisle’s home was Dian’s task, and he wanted to do it without asking questions of any one. He took out a faded, leather wallet from an inner pocket of the smock which he wore under his cloak. Standing so that the light fell upon the wallet, he took from it a long folded piece of thin paper, which he opened and examined. It was the plan of a street and a house. He stood for a long time there in the shadow looking at it closely. It was traced in black ink delicately but distinctly. After he had looked at it for some time, he folded it up and put it back in the wallet, and then put the wallet in the inner pocket of his smock again.

Some one bumped against him in passing. It was a farmer’s lad with a sack of potatoes over his shoulder. They were close to the gates and the market carts were drawn up in rows near by, looking ghostly in the cold morning fog. The boy had an honest face, and Dian was moved to speak to him.

“It is a bleak winter day,” he volunteered, and the boy answered snappily:

“There’s no sense in bringing in produce these mornings. Wait till spring, I tell the master. Then there will be lettuces and cucumbers, something worth while; though there won’t be so many to enjoy them as last spring, I’m thinking.” The boy spoke significantly, meaning that many of the rich aristocrats, who had enjoyed the market dainties, were now in prison or had already been executed.

“Have you served many of the great houses with your master’s produce?” Dian asked the boy.

“Bless you, of a surety! There are none of the big houses that I do not know. All of Saint Germain has tasted our lettuces and our young carrots. But that’s all passed now; their day is gone. You look as though you knew a farm well yourself, and as though you did not feel too well acquainted with the city.” He eyed Dian frankly, but not impudently, as he spoke.

Dian

“Yes, I am new to the city and I confess that I would be glad of company. Would you not like to stroll about for a while? This does not seem to be a cheerful part of town. Let us take a look elsewhere.”

Dian had the rare gift of reading faces. He had felt, when he first saw the farmer’s boy, that he was to be trusted and that he was merry and honest of heart. He was very well content when the boy replied that he would like to go about for a while, and he did not have to report to his master until late afternoon. The two started off together, keeping along the quieter streets, and walking rapidly until they came to the great square facing the one-time Tuileries palace.

As they stood there in the great square, they could see the black, sinister guillotine in the distance. Dian shut his eyes and stood for a few moments with his head bowed over his clasped hands. He was giving thanks for the long, warm summer days, the comfort of the stars at night, and the confidence of his sheep as he led them home at sundown. The noise of the city was all about him. Wild voices were singing the “Ça Ira,” the song of the revolution, rough, ragged groups of men and women in scarlet caps jostled past him. There were sounds of pounding and hammering everywhere, and he could hear the clanging of anvils from near-by forges. All over the city, these forges had sprung up over night, to make weapons for the people.

They walked the great length of the square and, except for a curious glance or so at Dian because of his red locks and his great stature, no one noticed them at all. They kept in the midst of the crowd going up the rue Saint Honoré. The tri-color ribbons and the gay red caps of the half-starved crowds made splashes of brilliance through the greyness. The farm boy touched Dian’s arm.

“Listen,” he said and his voice sank almost to a whisper. “Listen! I hear the roar of the tumbrils. They are coming this way. They almost always do. I have seen them before.” He caught Dian’s arm as he spoke, and Dian could feel him trembling.

The shepherd laid his hand on the lad’s arm. “Let us come away from all this. I do not want to see them. I cannot help them by seeing them.”

“Do you want to help them?” the boy asked.

“I want to help everyone,” Dian answered.

They walked down a side street, away from the rue Saint Honoré, but the roar of the tumbrils followed them for a long time. Dian was sad at heart. He knew too well that for long centuries the people of France had been kept down and abused and embittered by the tyranny and injustice of the nobles, but he knew also that every day many innocent people were going to their death in the great square, that the revolution no longer had any dignity, no longer was a striving for justice and equal rights for all. It had grown to be a nightmare of wild, undisciplined horror. Dian was in earnest when he said that he wanted to help everyone—Grigge as well as Lisle. He wanted it more than anything else in all the world.

As they walked, the boy told Dian that his name was Raoul, and that he came into the city once a week with his master. He said that they always stayed over night, at lodgings above a seed shop near the west barrier, and returned to the country the following day. They walked on until they came in sight of the Bois, a dark blur against the winter sky. The Bois is a wood in the heart of Paris. It had the same charm and mystery about it then that it has to-day. Dian stood looking at it, thinking of what Neville had told him of the gay coaching parties and promenades and daily drives in their gilded coaches of the Saint Frères and other families of the nobility. They were all gone now, these same families, hiding for their lives.

Dian knew the Saint Frère house as soon as he saw it, not so much by the plan he had, which would help him more in finding his way about inside, as by an engraving which he had seen in the study of the old Comte Saint Frère at Les Vignes. It was not difficult to distinguish it from the other great houses near it. There was something medieval and different about it. Indeed, there was no house in all of Paris quite so old.

He did not speak of the house to Raoul, as they passed by it. They had a modest meal of coffee and bread for a few sous at a stand near the farmer boy’s lodgings. Then Dian went with him as far as the seed shop and there they bid each other good-by. Raoul said that he was glad to have met him, for he was timid about going alone in the streets while the city was in such a turmoil, and it was good to have the company of one who, like himself, knew the country and farm ways. Dian answered that he would know how to find him at his lodgings. The boy assured him that he could always be found there on Thursdays, unless the weather was so bad that his master gave up coming into Paris.

As he walked away from the seed shop, Dian felt deeply grateful that he had become acquainted with the farmer’s boy, Raoul. He would be coming and going out of Paris every week. That in itself was something to remember. It was growing dark, and the shepherd walked slowly back by the way which he had taken earlier in the day with Raoul, past the Bois to the Saint Frère house. A small part of his task had already been accomplished. He had found the Saint Frère house. The next thing was to enter it. This would be an easy enough task if the comtesse were at home, but something told Dian that she was not.

It was so dark by the time he reached its gates that he could see the house only vaguely. A fine sleet was falling, and there was something sad about the aspect of the whole place. Dian walked up the marble steps to the great iron door and pulled the silken cord. He heard a loud clang echoing through the great house, but, although he waited for a long time, no one opened the door. He went around to the side of the house which opened directly on to the dark, narrow side street which Marie Josephine had traversed with Gonfleur the night of the bal masqué. After groping about for a while in the dark, Dian found the door leading into the cellar. It was half open. He went inside, stepped over the logs of wood lying on the floor, crept up the steep, dark stairs, and found himself facing a long corridor.

Dian always remembered that walk through the great, silent house. There was no sound anywhere at all, and there was no sign of any human being. The drawing-rooms, the great halls, and the wide stairways seemed never to have known the touch of human footsteps. In one of the smaller rooms, on a pillow of a velvet couch, he saw some needlework and a pair of scissors lying beside it. It looked as though the sewing had been carelessly thrown down, as indeed it had been when Great-aunt Hortense’s servant had come for the comtesse.

Dian stood still in the center of the drawing-room and pondered. He looked at the inlaid mother-of-pearl table from which Humphrey had snatched the blue velvet covering to put about Rosanne, and at the wide hearth where Lisle and Rosanne had toasted the nuts that night a week ago, when so much had happened. Dian could not know of all this, but he worked things out in his mind. The house had not been taken over by the Republican soldiers. Of that he was convinced. Neville had told him of much that was happening, and he knew that he would have found some sign of occupation either by the mob or official authority.

He went on up to the floor above and came to a large room which he was sure must have belonged to the comtesse, for in it were a gilded bed with a blue brocade coverlet, and a tall dressing table with blue draperies and gold toilet articles. There was a little room off this which interested Dian and he stayed in it for some time. Dian had not wanted to go through the house, but he knew that he must do everything in his power to find Lisle and his mother and the little girl who had always been the Little Mademoiselle’s best friend. That was why the little room off the comtesse’s big one interested him so much. There was a sleeping couch, and close by it a table. On the table were arranged some books, and propped against the books was a water-color painting of a dog. In spite of the wobbly legs and ungainly shape, Dian realized that it was meant to be a likeness of Flambeau. He picked it up and read what was written on it:

“Flambeau wishes to give you his best felicitations for your birthday. Your friend, Marie Josephine.”

The date was that of a year or more before. It evidently had been one of Rosanne’s greatest treasures. She had brought it with her when she had had to leave her own home so suddenly for the Saint Frère home. As Dian looked at the painting, he felt the same sadness of heart that he had felt when Grigge had begged him not to go away. It was because he had such deep and tender pity for any one in distress.

He passed on to the servants’ part of the house. Everywhere he saw evidence of careless, hasty departure. There was one room that seemed different from the others; it gave the air of being occupied. Dian knew at once that it belonged to Henri, the one servant who had stayed, and he whom Neville did not trust. The door of the room was open, and Dian went inside. Henri probably still lived here, and at any moment he might return.

Dian went on down through the vast house, feeling his way in the darkness, until he came to the long corridor on the lower floor. He took a candle from one of many in a bronze candelabra on the hall table, and then, with his sack over his shoulder, made his way to the top of the cellar stairs. Here he lit his candle with flint and tinder which he had found in a box on the drawing-room floor. Then he climbed down, down, until he came to the dim cellar. He knelt on the floor and pressed the little square stone—the seventh—that was wedged in between the other stones. The stone slid aside and, as the space opened to receive him, he descended slowly into the heart of the ancient house, into the furthermost depths of its hidden fastness. Before descending, he touched the stone and it slipped back into place. He had faith that it would open as easily again at his touch. He had searched for no lodging in Paris that day because he knew that he would lodge deep underground. He was “the other one” who knew of the hidden cellar!

Chapter XIII

PIGEON VALLEY AGAIN

“Jean, you must not be sulky. I have told you before that you are a great baby. I only played and pretended to be happy. I shall never be so stupid again.”

Marie Josephine and Jean were swinging on the gates of Les Vignes, enjoying the keen rush of air about their faces as they swung back and forth. It was a week since Dian had left in the night and they missed him sadly.

“It doesn’t matter whether we miss Dian or not, if only he can be of comfort to maman and Lisle,” Marie Josephine went on. “I heard the man talking to Nannette. You know, the man who brought the news about the king. They have killed the king and the man said that they would kill the poor queen. Lisle will run away and fight for the queen, even if he is only fifteen. I know he will. Lisle, Lisle, I want to see you so much!”

“You are not the same since Dian left. You will not play, and you look as though you were thinking all the time,” said Jean, biting into a wizened apple.

“I am thinking, Jean. When Neville came back that night that we had supper on the terrace, he brought us no good news. I have not been happy since.”

Jean jumped down from the gate, and held it so that it stopped swinging back and forth. He looked up at Marie Josephine.

“What is your thought, Little Mademoiselle? Tell me what it is; please tell little Jean!” He looked so young as he stood there. Marie Josephine gave her head an impatient shake, so that the blue hood of her cape fell back on her shoulders.

“Your cousin Grigge is coming this way, Jean,” she said.

Grigge came up to them along the bleak, frozen road. He would have passed them by with a sort of half nod to Marie Josephine and a scowl for Jean, had not Marie Josephine called out to him:

“Will you not come and speak with us, Grigge? We have been talking of Dian the shepherd, and we wish that we could see him.”

Grigge had never spoken with the Little Mademoiselle before although he had seen her every summer, and she had always given him a pleasant greeting. He was so eager for news of Dian, that he came up to them at once.

“You have heard from him, Mademoiselle! Tell me that you have had word!” He came close to the gates and looked up eagerly at Marie Josephine.

She shook her head. “There is no news of him, but he has only been away a week. We are sure that he is happy, wherever he is. Nothing but good could happen to Dian.”

Grigge clasped his hands together in his eagerness.

“No, no, you are right. Nothing could happen. He will come back,” he exclaimed.

Marie Josephine nodded emphatically.

“Jean and I will walk with him across the meadows at sunset, and he will have so many wonderful things to tell us about his adventures!”

Grigge looked at her wonderingly, at the fineness of her blue cape, the delicate contour of her face, her carefully brushed curls, her straight black velvet frock. He had never been close up to any one like her before. She was so unlike anything in his own life that she might have come from another world. When she told him that no news had come from Dian, his face fell. All the week he had felt a weight of loneliness upon him. He had taken faithful care of the sheep and he had been proud of the task, but the one person who made life bearable for him had gone away.

Marie Josephine looked at Grigge with interest. What a pale, thin boy he was, and what big eyes he had! She felt a lump in her throat as she looked at him. Marie Josephine was beginning to wake up. She was beginning to realize that there was something in the world besides the house in Paris and Les Vignes, governesses and bals masqués. She was seeing Grigge for the first time, not just as a poor, ragged lad living in one of the hovels at the very gates of her home, but as some one who was unhappy and worried and in need of comfort, as she was herself. Feeling this way about Grigge was so new to her that she did not know what to make of it.

“Do you miss Dian so much?” she asked him.

He nodded, his face working as though he would cry.

“He has gone to help my brother. He told Jean and me a story about a prince. It came to him suddenly, and he told it to us. He called Lisle his prince, and he said he felt that he was in trouble.” Marie Josephine’s voice shook, and the tears sprang into her eyes in spite of herself.

Grigge sneered in the way he so often did when he spoke to his cousin Jean. He was hungry and cold. The wind whistled through his tattered coat. So that was it! Dian had gone away to help some one who had never done anything for him, who probably did not need him at all!

“Why should he go to your brother? What has he ever done for him? What have any of you ever done for us? You have done nothing but starve us! My father had to spend his nights beating the swamps so that the frogs would not disturb your people’s sleep!”

Grigge spoke so fast that he jumbled all his words together. His eyes snapped oddly in his gaunt face. He had not meant to burst out in that way. The words seemed to come almost without his knowing it. It was a bitter, dark winter. They had nothing and, he felt sure, never would have anything but bitter want. He felt jealous, too, when he saw his cousin Jean. He always had been jealous because Jean lived within the gates, and had better food than he.

Marie Josephine’s eyes were full upon him. They were filled with astonishment, but not anger. She was too interested to be angry.

“Dian maybe is risking his life! There are terrible times in Paris. We heard from the peddler that they have killed the king. Your brother is not worth as much as Dian’s staff!” Grigge went on excitedly.

Jean flung himself from the gate and pitched into Grigge before either he or Marie Josephine could think. He had been swinging back and forth and listening, and when Grigge said that Lisle was not worth as much as Dian’s staff, he was ready to spring! The two boys rolled over and over on the hard ground. Jean knew that he was getting the worst of it, but he did not mind. He was fighting for the Little Mademoiselle, and he gloried in it. Let her say again that he was only a baby, and that he would never grow up! She would see that he could avenge her! She would see that no one could insult her brother in his presence, even if he were only little Jean!

Marie Josephine’s voice rang out sharply in the clear, frosty air.

“Stop! Do you hear me? I say you are to stop. Do not dare to hurt little Jean, Grigge!”

Grigge had Jean upon the ground and was pounding him with his fists.

Marie Josephine ran over to the two boys.

“It would break Dian’s heart to see you,” she cried. Grigge immediately left off pounding and stood up, and after a moment Jean followed his example. Grigge looked sullen and sheepish, but Jean’s little face glowed. Marie Josephine had given him a look of approval.

They stood there, the three of them, in the pale wintry sunshine. Marie Josephine looked straight into Grigge’s eyes. She held her blue cloak about her shoulders, her curls blew in the wind, and on her white, earnest face was a look that had never been there before.

“I didn’t know, Grigge. I am just waking up to—oh, so many things! You are not the only one who has trouble now, remember that. We must all try to help each other.” As she spoke, she turned away toward the gates, but Grigge’s voice followed her.

“I’m sorry, Mademoiselle,” he cried.

Late the next afternoon Marie Josephine sought Jean at the cottage. He was alone, sitting on the settle by the fire, and he was just finishing his early supper of onion soup. Mother Barbette had gone to the hovel to take some soup to Grigge’s youngest sister, who was ailing.

Marie Josephine shut the door behind her and came over and sat on the settle, well pleased to find that Jean was alone.

“It is soon time for me to be dressed for our supper, so I can only stay for a very little while. I have been thinking some more, Jean, and I am going to tell you what I have planned to do.” She looked at him very earnestly as she spoke. “I think I shall tell you—if only I can be quite, quite sure that I can trust you. Now do not frown. You might forget and let a word slip. Will you promise me that you will never, never let any one know what I am going to tell you?” She put both hands on his shoulders as she spoke and her eyes shone with eagerness.

Jean nodded vigorously. He would not mention what he had done, not he. She had seen him pitch into Grigge, a big boy, who was known to be a fighter. She knew that he was not so young as she had thought. He could keep his own counsel too.

“I’ll never tell, never, never, never,” he assured her.

She went over to the door, opened it, and looked out to make sure that no one was coming. A shriek from above the door made her jump, but it was only Pince Nez the crow.

Marie Josephine walked over to the fire and poked one of the logs with her little bronze shoe. There was some snow on the shoe and it fell into the logs with a sizzling sound.

“It is like this, Jean,” she said. “I’ve thought about it so many times, lying awake at night, and even when sitting with the others around the drawing-room fire after our supper, while Hortense and Le Pont worked over their tapestries and Cécile read aloud. Oh, Jean, I was only thirteen last week, but I feel older than any of them now. It makes me so sad when I see Le Pont doing the tapestry lilies on the screen that she has been working on for four years in the summers at Les Vignes, and remember how different it all was when she began it.” Marie Josephine choked back a sob.

“Yes, but tell me what it is that you are thinking about,” insisted Jean, as Pince Nez lighted suddenly on his shoulder and gave his ear a friendly little peck. “You are thinking of Madame your mother and of Monsieur Lisle, is it not so?” As he said this, he came over to the fire and stood beside her, frowning.

“I do not know whether to tell you or not——” Marie Josephine began, but she was interrupted by Jean’s angry words:

“You are going to say again that I am a baby and I will not bear it. Did I not fight my cousin Grigge for the sake of you all, this very day?” Jean gulped down a sob and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his black smock.

Marie Josephine patted his shoulder reassuringly.

“You were splendid, a real friend. I was proud of you. Yes, I am going to tell you. I have a plan which I must carry out.” She sat down on the settle, holding the sides of her cape with both hands, and looked across at him. “When the spring comes, Jean,” she went on, “I am going to”—her voice sank to a whisper—“Paris.”

Jean’s face went blank with astonishment. “You do not mean it! Why you would never be allowed, never in the world. They would never let you go!” he exclaimed.

“Don’t be stupid, Jean. They will know nothing about it. It is a secret.”

“It is not safe to go! You could not do it! You are only a little girl. It would be bad enough for me, who am a boy.” Jean enjoyed saying this very much and he felt suddenly the older and more experienced of the two. He had felt so ever since his fight with Grigge in the morning.

“I tell you that I will go. You cannot understand, for I can tell you only a little of why I am going,” she answered, frowning at him with her straight, black eyebrows which were so like the old comte’s.

“It is not safe to go. The peddler, who told us of the king’s death, said it was not safe. He said to go to Paris was to endanger one’s life!” protested Jean, his eyes growing bigger and bigger with excitement.

“The peddler said many things that were not true. Le Pont is sure that he could not have spoken the truth. No one would hurt me. I am not afraid,” she answered stoutly. “Maman and Lisle are in Paris. Have you forgotten Dian’s story about the prince in the dungeon. He has gone to help them, and so must I.”

“What could you do for them?” Jean was so deeply interested that he spoke loudly, and Marie Josephine held up her hand warningly.

“You must be silent about all this; it is to be a great secret between us.” She shook her finger at Pince Nez, who had perched himself on the top of Mother Barbette’s four-poster bed. “You are not to tell either, you naughty creature. I do not trust you. I think you are a witch in disguise!”

This seemed so funny to Jean that he fairly doubled up with laughter, rocking back and forth and chuckling loudly. He was so excited that it made him laugh all the harder and his mother, who at this moment opened the door, stood and gazed at him in astonishment.

“Why, you silly cabbage, you laugh like a clown. He is indeed a foolish feather head, is he not, Little Mademoiselle?” Mother Barbette put her arm tenderly about Marie Josephine and she hid her face on the broad, kind shoulder.

“It is so dark and cold. Will summer ever come?” she said. Mother Barbette gave a reassuring little laugh.

“Surely summer is coming, Little Mademoiselle, and with it the sunshine”—and her voice faltered a little as she went on—“and the dear ones who are away!”

Something in Mother Barbette’s words comforted Marie Josephine. She gave her a hug and said: “I love you, Mother Barbette. I must run back now, for, as it is, I know that I shall be well scolded by Le Pont for being out after dark.”

“Jean shall go with you through the wood, though there is never any fear for any one in our woods at Les Vignes, thank the kind God,” said Mother Barbette fervently. She stood in the low-arched doorway of the cottage watching the two children as they made their way toward their favorite wood path which led to the great house on the terrace.

The two friends ran a little of the way and then suddenly Jean stopped in the middle of the path and caught Marie Josephine’s cloak in both his hands. A wild rabbit scudded through the snow, popping behind a glistening, frost-tinted bush. Jean called after it, and then turned back to look at his friend.

“Listen, Little Mademoiselle. Don’t you know what I must do? When you go away to Paris in the spring I must go with you.” He, too, lowered his voice to a whisper, and he looked back over his shoulder, as though he feared that his mother might be right behind them, listening.

Marie Josephine took him by the shoulders and gave him a little shake. “You will not go. Not for anything in the world would I let you go. Do you think I would be such an ungrateful girl as that to Mother Barbette? You are never to speak of it again—never!” Marie Josephine was so excited that she had to take a deep breath before she could go on. “Oh, if only you could! But we must never, never talk of it again!” Her eyes glowed as she spoke, and there was a glad, warm feeling in her heart. It was good to have a friend like Jean, even though he seemed so young for twelve and a half and knew so little of the world beyond Les Vignes!

They reached the wide sweep of terrace and she turned to him quickly. “I must run, for I am sure they will be angry because it is dark. Le Pont has grown so fussy and afraid. She cries a great deal, too. Thank you for saying you would go with me. It can never, never be done. It would be unfair and dishonorable of me to let you go. A Saint Frère could not do such a thing—— But it would have been fun!”

She was off, running across the terrace like a wild rabbit. The governess was standing at the top of the veranda steps. Marie Josephine could see that she was frowning.

“You make it so much harder for me these days, Marie Josephine,” she said, holding her dark satin cloak close about her. The wind swept across the porch, making the dry, frozen lily stalks at the side of the house crackle oddly. “I am never at ease about you. You never seem to be in the house. To-morrow you will stay inside all day, and you will do extra lessons. You are disobedient and thoughtless!” After she had spoken Madame le Pont went into the house.

Bertran did most of the talking at supper. He tried to make Marie Josephine quarrel with him, but she did not seem to mind his teasing as she generally did. She despised Bertran. He was fourteen and yet he did nothing but ride and dance. Ah, if only he were a brave knight who could go to Paris and help Lisle! There was instead only little Jean. Her heart warmed toward Jean as she sat next to Cécile in the long drawing-room after supper. She watched Neville as he went about lighting the candles. He was dressed in the scarlet and white livery of the old Paris days and his white wig was tied back with a black ribbon. She had asked him again and again to tell her all that he knew. He had assured her, with all honesty, that he had left her mother and Lisle safe and well at the Paris house, and that there was no need for her to be alarmed. But she knew that he did not believe that they were not in danger, and she guessed that he was thankful that Dian had gone to them.

Marie Josephine put her head against Cécile’s shoulder and looked into the fire with half-closed eyes. Denise was singing at the old spinnet and Bertran was trying to join in, but his voice sounded as though any moment it would crack. It was an old country song and there was something plaintive and charming about it.

“Bergère legère, je crains tes appas,

Mon ame s’enflame, mais tu n’aimes pas!”

Le Pont thought of her only as a naughty little girl. Dear Cécile, her heart was sad; yet she could do nothing but work on her tapestry and pray for her loved ones who were in peril. But she, Marie Josephine, was going away alone to a great city, into the heart of a revolution! She was going in the spring!

Chapter XIV

WHAT LISLE PUT IN THE CAKE

“Tell me some more, please. See, I will blow the fire and make a blaze.” Vivi spoke pleadingly, as she picked up some pieces of a broken basket and put them on the low fire in the tiny, rusty grate.

“You tell me something, Vivi. I’ve talked and talked, and now I want to know about you. Have you always lived here in the alley? Let’s sit close together to keep warm, and let’s talk.”

Rosanne drew the velvet table cover close about them and they hitched the cot as near the fire as they could without getting up.

Vivi shook her head.

“What is there for me to tell, Mademoiselle? It is you who have done everything. I have done nothing. I have lived with my father always, here in the alley. Winter and summer I have lived here. In the summer I go out and play in the streets. There is always some fun about the gates. We used to catch rides on the market carts, and that was the most fun of all. Sometimes we would ride way out into the country. But those times are over, for now no one may go in and out of the city without a pass, and there is always shouting and fighting around the gates.”

It was a fortnight since Humphrey Trail had brought Rosanne to Vivi. Their acquaintance had progressed by leaps and bounds. Shut in from the winter cold and terrors of the city, it was small wonder that they were drawn together. The days had been long, the only excitement being the arrival of Humphrey with food and good cheer. But he always had to shake his head when Rosanne asked for news of Lisle. He did not let her see how he himself was worried to distraction over the boy; instead he always had a word of encouragement. They would have a clue soon. He was probably safe enough. Yet all the while, night and day, he was going over in his mind the few things that he knew about Lisle. Where was he? How to find him? These were the grave questions always before Humphrey Trail!

This particular February night he was feeling discouraged, and for that reason pretended to be more than usually cheerful before the two girls. He found them sitting on the cot close to the fire and spoke to them merrily.

“What would tha say to a bit o’ sweet cake! Humphrey Trail will bring tha some. Tha shall see!”

Vivi smiled delightedly.

“A real cake from a bakery shop; one with cherries,” she pleaded.

“Bring news of Lisle, Humphrey Trail,” Rosanne said. Her brown eyes looked very big in her small, white face.

Above all things he must see that the little girl kept her cheer and courage. “Tha’ll be running races with him some day in the land o’ Yorkshire,” he said as he threw his cloak over his shoulder and went out.

He stood uncertainly for some moments on the corner of the rue Saint Antoine in a swirl of snow. Sounds of rough, brawling voices came down the dark street. The snow was black with the ashes and smoke from near-by forges where guns were being made for the army. Humphrey stepped inside a small café at the end of the street and, seating himself at a rude table near the door, ordered a glass of hot ale. He had never attempted any disguise. He was just an honest farmer and taken for such by any one who took the trouble to notice him. Few would have thought him to be other than French until they heard him speak. There were many out-of-towners in the city at that time, market farmers, well-to-do villagers, all eager to join in the talk and wrangle of the day, each with his own especial plan or grievance, all ardent Republicans.

Humphrey listened to a group who sat near him, rough, unkempt men of the Saint Antoine district. He had made it a practice, during the last fortnight, of dropping in here and there and listening to the talk going on around him. He sipped his hot ale, listening intently, but his knowledge of French was so meager that he could only catch a word here and there.

“They think they’re mighty fine, those aristos living snugly in their grand houses in the country. They think their fields and cattle and their hired slaves will save them. Well, they’ll sing another song soon. They’ll not stay long in hiding. They’ll be hunted out, root and branch, all of them!”

Loud laughter and applause greeted the end of this harangue. After putting down the coins to pay for his drink, Humphrey went out into the wintry night. He had heard something which gave him food for thought, and he felt that it would ease his mind to walk about the city. He was restless, but his discouragement had given place to alertness. There was so much to do that he had not a moment for brooding. For a week or more he had been wondering how it was with Lisle’s family at Pigeon Valley. The day after Lisle’s disappearance he had gone to the Marquise du Ganne’s house. Rosanne knew the house well, having gone there on state occasions with Marie Josephine. She was able to give Humphrey a fair idea of how to find it. She told him that the coat of arms on the door was different from that of the Saint Frères’. It was a shield with two swords crossed in the middle. He had found the house, but he had found, also, two soldiers of the Republic stationed in front of it. He had stopped and spoken to them.

“Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, citizen,” he had said, and they had answered, “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, citizen.”

“You have a chilly day for doing naught but standing still,” he went on. They had laughed at his attempt to speak their Paris French, and one of them had replied:

“We are watching a nest to see that the birds do not fly away, citizen.”

Then he had gone on as unconcernedly as he could. So Lisle’s mother and his Great-aunt Hortense were prisoners, too!

Humphrey was thinking over this occurrence of a fortnight ago, as he walked toward the Place de la Bastille. He had gone back twice since to a vantage point where he could see the Du Ganne house without being observed himself. Both times he had seen the soldiers. He was thankful that Rosanne was safe for the present, at least. He was slowly trying to prepare a way of escape when the time should come that he could get away, but he knew that unless he could take the children, Lisle and Rosanne, with him, he would never go. He would not go alone.

The skipper of the schooner Sandlass, Anastasius Grubb, was a Yorkshire friend of his. He had made the voyage across from England with his crony, and he had waved him a smiling good-by from the shore. But that was some time ago now and Anastasius was as far away and unattainable as the stars, or so it seemed to Humphrey on that raw February night!

He walked on toward the rue Saint Honoré, drawing up the wide collar of his coat as the stinging wind blew about him. At last he turned in at the gilded door of the bakery at 126 rue Saint Honoré. Its blue and silver sign was flapping in the wind.

When he came inside he saw the bakery woman talking across the counter with a boy who carried a basket of vegetables.

“Tell your master that I say he is getting almost too fine for his old friends, judging by the cake he has ordered for next week!” the woman was saying, and the boy answered:

“It’s not for himself. It’s for the seed merchant where we stay when we come in with produce. Some of his friends are coming together next week for a dispute and supper!”

The bakery woman shrugged her shoulders.

“That’s all they do, waste good time chattering like a set of magpies. Well, they’ll have the cake, never fear! Now you can go to the back and take a cup of coffee and a croissant, if you’ve a mind to. Only do get that big basket out of the way, and quickly, too. You’re right in front of a customer.”

The boy went through the shop to the back where he found himself in the midst of general confusion.

Humphrey selected a good-sized sponge cake topped with almond icing. It was expensive and he counted out his coins ruefully. He did not have a great deal of money and he knew that he must save enough for bribes, if need be. He took the package of cake from the woman, who gave him only a passing look, and went out.

Raoul, the farmer’s boy, helped himself to a steaming cup of coffee from a tall, white jug on the table in the back room and selected a nicely browned croissant from the plate beside the jug. Then he shoved his basket over to one side and looked about for a place to rest and eat. He had been on his feet all day, and he was glad of the prospect of a bite to eat and, perhaps, a nap. Beyond the pantry room, at one side, were the kitchens, from which issued a savory odor of baking and the jangle of many voices; on the other side, at the back, was something that looked like a storeroom. On going into the storeroom, Raoul found that it was filled with old boxes, bundles of paper, a broken chair or two, and some tubs.

He sat down on a dingy settle without a back, in a dim corner of this junk room. At the other end of the room was a short stairway leading to a narrow gallery. The remains of an old bureau and some more boxes were heaped up on the little gallery. Raoul sipped his hot, sweet coffee and munched his croissant. The warmth from the baking kitchens and the quiet after his busy day made him drowsy, and soon he was fast asleep.

He woke suddenly and sat up. The bakery woman was climbing the stairway, carrying a tray. When she reached the gallery she put the tray down on the floor in front of a door which faced her. Taking some keys from her waist she unlocked the door and then picked up the tray. At that moment, through the half-open door, Raoul caught sight of a boy, who sat facing him on a window ledge in a corner of the room.

Raoul rubbed his eyes. He was not one to fancy things. Surely he was awake and not dreaming! He had seen a boy sitting on a window ledge in an otherwise unused room back of the storeroom. He had seen him distinctly. The light from a window behind had shone upon the boy’s fair hair. He saw the bakery woman unlock the door upon going in, and he knew she had locked it again when she went inside. He had heard the lock click. The boy in the room must be a prisoner!

Raoul picked up his basket of vegetables and went quickly out, unnoticed by the bustling groups in the kitchens and pantry.

After she had bolted the door, the woman crossed the room, and, putting the tray down on the window sill beside her prisoner, surveyed him, her hands on her hips. Lisle returned her gaze unconcernedly.

“A nice, grateful kind of boy you are, to be sure! Here I leave my patrons and my shop to come up here with good, fresh milk brought straight from the country by a market gardener, and crisp cakes baked in my own oven this very day, and never so much as a 'Thank you’ from you for all my pains. Name of a name, but you’re a proud one!”

Lisle did not show any emotion at the bakery woman’s words, and that is what she could not understand. He had been snatched away from his own home, this young aristocrat, at night in the midst of a storm, and was a prisoner here in this little room at the back of her bakery shop, held under lock and key, his destination unknown. For all he knew, he might be delivered up at any moment to the Revolutionary Tribunal, which made short work of aristocrats, old or young. Yet he could look at her unconcernedly with his cold blue eyes. Well, she had had nothing to do with the whole business, except that it was her task to feed the prisoner. She was not without a heart, and she saw that the food was good. She had no use for aristocrats, old or young—let them have their just deserts!—but she could not see the sense of keeping the boy shut up. Her husband did not confide his plans to her, but she guessed that there was money in his scheme, money or official position in one of the sections. These sections had sprung up all over the city, and each one hoped, in time, to make the laws of the country. No doubt her husband was keeping the lad until the right moment for handing him over to the Revolutionary Tribunal. He would be a ripe plum to present. That was their game. She was sure of it!

The prisoner was speaking to her.

“I wish to ask you a question. Could you tell me if there is any other prisoner in this place beside myself?”

Lisle asked the question simply enough, but he listened eagerly for the woman’s answer. His unwinking gaze held her eyes as she replied:

“There is no one else. Do you think I make a jail out of my good bakery? No! I’ve plenty to do to feed the gay birds who come flocking in these days. They think they’re all very fine, good Republicans they call themselves, but to my mind their heads are not any too safe on their shoulders. Each one has his turn these days, and the mob is none too fond of fine clothes!” She walked toward the door as she spoke, and as she opened it, she said over her shoulder:

“You’ll do well to eat the cakes. They’re madeleines, you know, the kind you bought when you used to come to the bakery.”

He smiled as he answered her. “I’ll eat them, every one,” he said.

He sat for a long time on the window sill, his hands clasped about his knees, thinking. He still wore the blue velvet suit in which he had been dressed on the night of his abduction. The woman brushed it for him each night. The fresh linen that she brought him each day was coarse. She did not ask him to wear the shabby trunks and smock which her husband had given her for him; but there was a streak of romance in her, and she admitted to herself that she liked to see the boy sitting there on the sill, in his velvet suit, and with the flare of ribbon at the back of his neck. He was different from any one that had ever been in her life, like some one in a book of fairy tales.

Lisle was thinking deeply, while he drank the glass of milk and ate the cakes. He went over in his mind the events of a fortnight ago—his sudden, unbelievable capture, the rush through the fury of the storm, then warmth, the smell of baking, this room, and the bakery woman! He had never seen his captors. They had left him blindfolded inside the room, and the woman had come in shortly afterward!

He knew that the bakery woman was kind and he was grateful to her. He knew that as a prisoner he might have had to suffer physically in ways that he would have found it hard to bear. Here there was no filth or misery. There was good food and a comfortable bed. There was even a little mouse who came out and wabbled its nose at him now and then. He particularly enjoyed this because he had read stories in which prisoners made friends with mice and rats. It made his captivity more interesting to him. He felt certain that the bakery woman would not lift a finger to help him to escape, and he was right. She was not of the stuff of which heroines are made. She would not do anything to change the peaceful, even course of her bakery existence. No, he must not look to her for more than everyday comfort! Where, then, could he look?

He thought constantly of Rosanne, more so than of his mother, for he knew where his mother was, or, at least, where she was supposed to be, while of Rosanne he knew nothing at all, except that he had left her singing in the salon when he went to the cellar for the wood. More than anything else he longed to know that she was safe. He did not dare to mention her to the bakery woman, because he did not want to call attention to her at all. There was nothing then that he could do, but wait.

He asked the bakery woman for ink and a pen soon after his coming. She had protested at first, but had finally brought him a dish of ink and a long, fine quill pen. She herself used such articles only for her accounts, writing not being one of her best accomplishments. Lisle had explained to her why he wanted them.

“There is nothing to do, don’t you see? Nothing. I have no books, and you have none to give me. All prisoners have written accounts of their life in prison. It is always done, and it will give me something to think about!” he had said to her, and she had brought what he wanted, when she had come up again with his food. He had begun a sort of diary, and once when the mouse came out from his hole and winked at him while he was writing, he felt as though he might be a part of an old novel. He was a prisoner writing his diary, and his one friend was a mouse!

These were his happier moments. There were other times when he realized his dire position so vividly that it seemed as though he must pound and tear at the door until somehow he smashed it open, but he knew that it would never give way. He knew that his mother had gone to Great-aunt Hortense. More than that he could not know, and he dared not think too much about his people. When he thought of Pigeon Valley, he found that it was Dian who stood out among all others.

Meanwhile, Dian had walked the city from one end to another, making friends as was his wont. He became acquainted with the market gardener and went about with him to meetings of the different sections. Now and then he spoke at the meetings. When he spoke, the wrangling generally ceased for a moment, and the people listened—but only for a moment. They had no use for the message of love that he had to give. Yet they showed no animosity when his gentle, earnest face was seen among the crowds and at public meetings. He never once lost faith in his belief that the right way would be shown him. He was grateful that he had met Raoul and his master, for being with them meant being with the people, mingling with them freely. He had never gone through the Saint Frère house again, as he did not wish to run the risk of meeting Henri. Each night he slept in the hidden cellar and it was there that he thought everything out. As he paced up and down the rough, uneven floor, Dian thought that he would give up all that the future held for him of peace and quiet days to have Lisle walking beside him.

When the bakery woman came in to see Lisle the next afternoon she brought with her the cake she had baked for the seed shopman’s party. The boy, Raoul, was to come for it at four o’clock. Her man was going to the supper. There was to be roasted suckling pig. Indeed, it was to be a fine affair and much discussion was to take place.

“They’ll talk, but they won’t get anywhere; they never do,” sniffed the woman as she set the cake down on the table. It was already placed in its wide green box, and it was surrounded by soft pink paper.

It was a superb, a fantastic cake—four tiers of golden fluff, with glimpses of cream and marrons between layers and a gauze covering of spun sugar holding it all in place. It was topped with a glittering icing. The icing was festooned with candied apricots and cherries, in the midst of which stood a little spun-sugar figure wearing a tiny scarlet cap decorated with a tri-color rosette, the emblem of the revolution!

The bakery woman was proud of her cake and she did not attempt to conceal her pride. She pushed one side of the fine paper away so that Lisle could see it in all its glory. Lisle was glad to show his gratitude to the bakery woman for her kindness, by expressing an interest in her cake. He was quick to see beauty and cleverness, and he looked at the cake with appreciation. “Magnificent!” he exclaimed. Something in his sincere admiration, contrasting with the dire peril of his situation, touched the bakery woman so much that the tears came to her eyes. She turned away, saying, “I’ll see if I can make your cot more comfortable.”

She crossed the room, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand as she went.

It was then that the thought came to Lisle, and he knew that he must act quickly. He picked up the quill pen and wrote these words on a scrap of paper:

“I am Lisle Saint Frère, and I am a prisoner in the bakery shop at 128 rue Saint Honoré.”

He folded the paper and thrust it far back in the corner of the box, almost under the cake. While he did this he watched the bakery woman, whose back was toward him, as she smoothed the blankets of his cot. When she turned around, he was sitting as usual on the window seat. As she came up to him, he nodded toward the cake.

“You are a genius. I have never seen a cake like it, even at my mother’s soirées!” he said.

“It is a cake! Sacré bleu, it is a cake!” the bakery woman exclaimed.

“It might be for a banquet of the gods!” said Lisle, leaning forward and giving it another look. As he did so, the picture of past days in the schoolroom at home rose before him—Le Pont reading about Olympus, Marie Josephine pulling Denise’s hair when the governess was not looking, Hortense’s bored expression as she unwillingly took notes for a composition they were to write on the “Iliad.” A feeling of hopelessness came over him, but he smiled one of his rare smiles as he spoke to the woman. She put the green cover on the box and fastened the paper all about it with a gilt cord.

“There are no gods now but liberty and fraternity, they say, but I say there’s too much lawlessness, too much fighting and drinking, when every one needs a sober head. That’s what I say!” The woman shrugged her shoulders, lifted the box and walked toward the door. “This cake is going to them that have never tasted anything like it before. No one needs to say, because I’ve risen in the world I forget them that hasn’t.” As she said this, the bakery woman went out and closed the door.

The seed shopman, whose name was Soufflot, surveyed his room with pride. It was the storeroom of the seed shop. All along the center of the room were two rows of rude benches put together to make one long table. The walls were festooned from one end to the other with tri-color rosettes and streamers. At the far end of the room was a great banner upon which were the words “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death” in bright red, white, and blue letters.

The seed shopman had little enough to offer in the way of refreshment, his own nourishment consisting of black bread and lentil soup; but he was fortunate in having friends from the country. Raoul’s master had brought a couple of suckling pigs and had ordered a superb cake from the famous bakery on the rue Saint Honoré!

There were rows of tin plates along each side of the improvised table, and jugs of thin red wine were placed at intervals down the middle. From an inner room came the smell of sizzling, roasted pig. The cake sat in the center of the table. It was of so regal an aspect that it seemed to have no part with its surroundings.

A clock somewhere near the West Barricade struck nine. It was time for the guests to arrive. Just then, the market gardener, who had contributed largely to the feast, entered the room, Raoul at his heels. Towering behind them, his grey cloak wrapt close about him, hatless, and with the breath of fields and woods that seemed always to hover mysteriously about him, was Dian!

“I’ve brought in a man from the farmlands. He met up with the boy, Raoul. He’s a shepherd and he’s new to the city. He went to a sitting of the convention last night and spoke some good words, but those fools wouldn’t listen to him,” said the market gardener. Having donated the pigs and potatoes and the cake for the feast, he felt at liberty to bring in whom he pleased to partake of it.

Soufflot gave Dian a hearty welcome. His greeting was interrupted by the loud trampling of feet and the jangle of rough voices on the stairs, and the next moment the party arrived!

It was a noisy meal after the first hunger had been appeased. The guests, whose food consisted daily of black bread and garlic washed down with poor wine, ate enormously, declaring that they never knew that roasted pig could taste so good.

When at last they had had enough of the pig, they sat back and began to talk.

“The aristocrats are going, going, going! The guillotine is doing good work. But we must find them all, we must not let any escape! Some of them are getting away in spite of us, but, for the most part, they’re safe under lock and key or, better still, minus their thinking caps!”

There was a loud laugh at the end of the seed shopman’s remark, followed by a moment’s hush as Soufflot’s wife lifted the great cake and began to pass it around the table. It was so magnificent, as Lisle had said, that it fairly took one’s breath away. Most of the guests—tailors, blacksmiths, and tanners from the Saint Antoine district—were in awe of it, but after one taste they fell to with ardor. It was good! Ah, but it was delicious, that cake from the bakery on the rue Saint Honoré!

It was slow work passing it about the table, for it was heavy to carry. As Soufflot’s wife had no china dish to put it on, she had left it in its green box. Raoul regarded it yearningly. Would it ever reach him! He had thought often of the boy in the room above the junk room at the back of the bakery, but he had not spoken of him to any one. He knew that it was best to keep a quiet tongue in one’s head and he had no desire at all to get himself into trouble. It was no concern of his! He eyed the cake gloatingly, and turning to Dian, who sat next to him, he exclaimed: “How big it is! Madame Soufflot cuts big wedges for everyone but still it seems immense!”

His turn had come and he eyed his portion delightedly. He lifted the big piece in both hands and delved into it, smearing his round face with cream.

Dian took the rusty, uneven knife and lifted out his slice as Soufflot’s wife passed it to him. Then she went on to the next man. Dian took his cake in his hand, and, as he did so, he saw a stiff piece of paper stuck tight to the melting sugar. It was heavy and firm like writing paper, otherwise it would have turned to a pulp, as the softer paper about the cake had done. Dian unfolded it without thinking and saw the writing on it. He glanced about him. Everyone was deep in his cake and the discussion.

He read the words written upon it.

“I am Lisle Saint Frère, and I am a prisoner in the bakery shop at 128 rue Saint Honoré.”

He crushed the paper between his fingers, grinding it to bits with his nails. Then he sat silently in the midst of the hubbub going on about him, his head bowed over his clasped hands and in his heart a prayer of gratitude.

Chapter XV

“SHE IS LIKE OUR LITTLE MADEMOISELLE”

It was the first of March and there was a hint of spring about in spite of the bleakness of the streets and the chilliness of the air, a faint suggestion of warm winds coming, of new budding snowdrops and wood violets. Humphrey Trail was homesick. He wanted to see the first film of green over his Yorkshire moors, to hear the call of mating birds, and feel the busy, stealthy stir of wild things in the bracken and across the downs.

During the few weeks of winter that Rosanne had been with her, little Vivi had been content to stay inside; but now that the ice was melting and the robins were singing in the Bois, Vivi wanted to be out in the Paris that she knew, even in the midst of its terror. There was nothing for her to fear. Humphrey knew that he had no right to keep her a prisoner, and as they walked toward the West Barricade, he felt heavy at heart. They had left Rosanne locked up in the little room with Minuit to keep her company. There was nothing new for him to work upon, no hint of Lisle’s whereabouts. Always the soldiers stood guarding the house of Lisle’s Great-aunt Hortense, the Marquise du Ganne.

Vivi chatted happily, holding his big hand confidently.

“Very soon now I’ll be selling licorice water near the gates. People will be very thirsty soon, and many can not afford the wine. I shall make a little trade every day.”

It was early afternoon, and the sun shone bravely. Groups of men sauntered about, talking loudly, and soldiers of the Republic stood on guard close to the gates. Children, black with soot and raggedly clad, ran about, happy to get a breath of air after hours of work in a near-by forge, where they helped their mothers make waste for the guns. They danced about in the sunlight, twisting in and out in the dance that held all the mobs of Paris in its sway. As they danced, they sang in their high, weak voices:

“Dansons la Carmagnole,

Vive le son du canon!”

Vivi knew some of these children. She ran up to them and soon was dancing with them, glad of the fresh air and the sun and to be out in the open again. Humphrey Trail spoke to one of the soldiers who was standing near the gates.

“A good day for the people, this. Long live the Republic!” he said.

The soldier gave a loud laugh.

Vivi

“You might be one of the five hundred from Provence by the way you speak. Sapristi! I swear I can not understand but a quarter of their jabber. Look out there, you young brat, you’re always bumping that basket around.” The soldier said this last to a boy, who, running and carrying his basket at the same time, flopped over on the ground, his head falling against the side of the basket and his whole face convulsed with laughter. It was Raoul, and as he was so often about the gate he knew all the soldiers and he was not in the least afraid of this one.

“What a funny man! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I had a bet with Guy Soufflot that I would run into him and knock him over, just for the fun of seeing him tumble about like a rubber ball. What a funny man!” Raoul laughed up at Humphrey Trail as he spoke.

“Is th’ so, my young lad, is th’ so? I’ll teach tha better manners with a good stout stick, an’ tha do not stay tha chatter!” exclaimed Humphrey Trail, justly indignant at Raoul’s impudence. In his excitement he spoke in English entirely, so the boy, who did not understand a word of what he said, only laughed the harder.

“Oh, the funny fat man, and his funny way of speaking. Come here and listen to him!” he called to the Soufflot boy, who came running up to him. Raoul had arisen to his feet, putting his hand over his face as he rocked with laughter.

Humphrey made a dive at him and, catching him firmly by the arm, shook him until every tooth in his head rattled like a castanet.

“I’ll teach tha to know respect for tha elders,” Humphrey cried. At that moment some one spoke close beside him and, turning, he saw so strange a person that involuntarily he took his hands from Raoul’s shoulders and stared. The newcomer, a tall man, stood bare-headed in the sunshine, his red hair falling about his grave, beautiful face. It was Dian!

“Whatever the lad has done he is sorry for it, and he meant no harm. I can answer for him, I know him,” said Dian. As he spoke he turned his clear eyes full upon Raoul, who looked sheepish and embarrassed.

“He’s such a funny man,” he said half apologetically, reaching down and picking up his vegetable basket, a smile still lurking about his mouth.

“You have taunted him about his looks in a public place, and he does not know enough of your own tongue to answer you in kind,” Dian said quietly. Then he turned and looked Humphrey Trail full in the face, and it seemed as though at once, without any need of word or explanation, the two were friends. Dian’s smile was good to see as he held out his hand and took Humphrey Trail’s broad one.

“You are a stranger, I see from your speech, and, if I mistake not, you are English. You have come to our country at a sad time.” Dian spoke slowly and Humphrey understood all that he said and answered warmly, though he still glowered over his shoulder at Raoul, who was walking off with Guy Soufflot. He continued to grin as he moved on, but he did not call out again. Humphrey and Dian were left together there, in that momentarily quiet corner of the West Barricade.

“I came to see a strange country last summer. I’d saved a bit o’ gold, and I wanted a sight o’ the world. Tha comes from the farmlands thaself, an’ I mistake not.” As Humphrey answered Dian he felt his temper cool rapidly. He looked at Dian’s bronzed face and grave blue eyes, and he felt a strong desire to confide in him, to tell him the whole story, of how he had remained in Paris to help Lisle, had rescued Rosanne, and was now in a vortex of worry as to what to do next. What he did say was: “I stayed because I thought I might help. There was a lad whom I thought needed me; and so he did, but I wasn’t about the while he needed me the most!” Something of poor Humphrey’s discouragement sounded in his voice.

“There is a lad who needs me also,” Dian answered in his rich, sweet voice, his eyes shining with a deep gratitude. It was several days ago that he had found the note in the cake at the seed shopman’s supper, and he had known only thankfulness since. He had not gone into the bakery shop, though he had been near it often. He thought it best not to attract attention to himself there, and he waited for the moment when he should be able to get word to Lisle in some way. Dian was not so amazed or bewildered at the wonderful way in which the message of Lisle’s whereabouts had come to him as another might have been. He had known so many things in his life to happen in just that way, and he trusted always.

Vivi came running up to them and took Humphrey’s hand. She wore a ragged jacket over her drab dress, and her black, untidy hair flapped about her dark, eager little face. Dian smiled at her, and she smiled back at him, as all children did.

“She is like some one that I know well,” he said to Humphrey Trail.

“Now that is rare strange, for some one else has said the same,” Humphrey answered as the three made their way slowly from the west gate toward the city.

Vivi was excited. She had played and danced and eaten a good piece of bread and garlic which one of the soldiers had given her. When Humphrey said with his few, slowly-chosen French words that some one else had said she was like a friend, she cried out unthinkingly:

“Yes, yes, the little lady said so. She called out when you carried her in that night, 'She’s a little like Marie Josephine!’”

Dian stood still in the street, his hand on Humphrey’s arm.

“Marie Josephine!” he repeated. “Marie Josephine! Are you speaking of the Little Mademoiselle? I am shepherd to the Little Mademoiselle.”

“The Little Mademoiselle!” Humphrey stared and stared at Dian, and so did Vivi. Rosanne had spoken of a shepherd.

“The Little Mademoiselle!” This time it was Vivi who exclaimed, gazing up at Dian with her great black eyes.

“Yes,” he said gently. “You are like some one we call the Little Mademoiselle, some one who is a long way from here.”

Humphrey Trail turned so pale that his face looked not unlike the first glimpse of a full moon. Dian saw this and spoke to him with concern.

“There is something that has surprised you, and your worry has upset you!”

“Aye, I am fair flashed! Maybe it’s just the worry and the crowds.” He hesitated, and in that moment the angels must have been very near! Dared he take this stranger to the alley? Was he in some way a part of it all? Could it be, by the wildest chance, that the Little Mademoiselle was—— But no—Humphrey Trail caught Dian’s arm and shook it. “As there is a God above, tell me I can trust tha,” he said, and the shepherd answered him at once:

“You can trust me. It was meant to be so.”

They walked through the rue Saint Antoine in silence, Humphrey Trail holding fast to Vivi’s hand on one side, Dian’s long, slow stride keeping pace with their short, quick ones. They turned into the dark, dank alley. Humphrey opened the door which sagged on its hinges. They mounted the rickety stairs, waited while Humphrey unlocked the door, and then went inside, Vivi running ahead.

Rosanne was standing by the fire which was smouldering sulkily in the rusty grate. She turned at the sound of the unlocking of the door, and was facing them when they entered. She saw Dian before the other two, because he so towered above them. For a moment she stood still as a statue. Then with a cry that was like a sob she ran across the room to him.

Chapter XVI

MARIE JOSEPHINE IS READY

Spring had come early in Paris. It was a fortnight since Dian had gone to the alley and found Rosanne, since the wonderful evening when they had sat by the poor little fire of broken boxes and talked and talked. There they were in the heart of a city that had gone mad, one of them in hiding to save her life, all of them in gravest danger if once their real purpose were known, but all of them so happy.

When it was time for the two girls to go to sleep on their cot, Humphrey and Dian went up to the room above and sat, one on each side of the table, pondering what it was best to do.

“Th’ lad is there in the bakery shop. Tha found his poor note in th’ cake. The Lord is good. What a way! Odds me, what a way!” Humphrey muttered to himself. His heart was full, but some of his burden had rolled away. This quiet shepherd of the valley was at hand to help. He knew where Lisle was imprisoned and they could take counsel together.

Dian knew no English, and Humphrey’s French, as we know, was limited; but they managed to converse, and from the first they understood each other.

“I have a friend of many a year who would be fair willin’ to help us with a boat. He’s a skipper of his own vessel, the Sandlass. They’ve made young master Lisle’s mother prisoner in her aunt’s house. It is not safe for any of the family to be in Paris,” said Humphrey.

“It is not safe for any of the family to be in France, not for any of them.” Dian repeated the last words slowly, adding, “It soon may be unsafe in Pigeon Valley!” He was silent for a few minutes, and a deep gravity touched his face, an earnestness that was like a prayer. Then, as he looked across at Humphrey and saw the misery on his round face, he smiled his slow smile.

“You have done well and you speak words of comfort. Tell me the name of your friend who owns the boat and write him a letter,” he said.

Humphrey Trail looked at Dian in amazement.

“His name is Anastasius Grubb. But what good will that do? Tha knows well there is no way to send a letter through the gates, or to be sure it will reach my friend!” he exclaimed.

“I’ll see that the letter goes through the gates safely, and that it is given to the driver of the coach which goes nearest to the valley. I can trust him to give it into the hands of some one who will put it in the hands of your friend the skipper!”

“Tha can do this? Tha can trust the letter to go through?”

“Yes, trust,” Dian nodded as he spoke.

That was the conversation that Humphrey Trail and Dian held in the rat-haunted room in the alley.

A fortnight later the first breath of spring that they had felt there in the sunshine by the West Barricade had deepened into joyousness in Pigeon Valley. A faint flare of green touched the tops of trees in the forest, and a gleam of mauve and gold showed the early budding of violets and crocuses. There was a happy carnival of song birds early every morning. The sun was warm at noontime, and the nights were softly luminous.

There was spring everywhere, except in the hearts of the family at Les Vignes. There had been no arrival of the messenger for whom they had waited throughout the long winter. The comtesse had sent them no word, and that meant that she had not been able to do so. There had been rumors now and then, even direct news, of the horrors of Paris, brought by traveling peddlers, but there had been no news from Dian at all.

It was of this that Marie Josephine was thinking as she put Great-aunt Hortense’s shawl around her, and walked down the staircase at Les Vignes. It had been the hardest thing to bear, not hearing from Dian. She had felt so sure that he would find a way to help.

There was a look on Marie Josephine’s face which had never been there before, a seriousness in her eyes and about her mouth, a look of high purpose and of dignity. Madame le Pont noticed it as she came into the salon. They were all sitting about a fire of crisply burning logs, for the spring nights were cold.

“What is it, Marie Josephine?” she asked, and as she spoke the governess rose from her chair and came up to her.

“What do you mean, Le Pont dear? What is what?” Marie Josephine said gently, and she put her arm around Madame Le Pont’s waist and placed her cheek close to hers for a moment. There was something so wistful in the action that the governess felt sudden tears springing to her eyes.

“You are different in some way, chérie. You seem so—what shall I say—so very much a woman to-night.” Madame le Pont smiled as she spoke, for she knew that her remark would please her pupil greatly. She was surprised at Marie Josephine’s reply.

“I was just thinking about that to-night—being a woman, I mean. I was wondering how it might have been”—her voice trembled a little as she spoke—“if we’d just gone on as we were, here and in Paris; if there hadn’t been a revolution, and just the same everyday things had continued to happen. I was wondering what kind of a ball I should have attended for my first one, and if I should have been a belle!”

“You would have been as lovely as your Great-aunt Hortense when she was belle of Versailles,” put in Cécile from her seat by the fire.

“You mean she will be. You speak as though all this were going on forever, Cécile,” said Hortense, fastening back a long curl with her tortoise-shell comb.

“Let’s dance, Spitfire,” suggested Bertran, sliding across the room to her.

Marie Josephine nodded. “Yes, I would like to dance. Will you play for us, Cécile?”

Cécile stood up and went over to the spinnet.

“I’d love to play. See if you can do a gavotte to the shepherd song I was trying yesterday. Do open the jalousie, Bertran, the moon is trying to shine in,” she said, seating herself at the old spinnet which had helped them all to while away the long evenings during the winter. Cécile needed all her courage these days, for the governess talked more freely to her than to the others, and she knew that things were coming to a serious pass at Les Vignes. The men on the place were leaving for the army. Most of them had already gone. There would be no one to till the ground. There was no one on whom they could rely, now that Dian had gone, except Neville, and his only idea of helping was to go again to Paris. Dian had gone and they had had no word. Neville must not leave them.

Marie Josephine enjoyed her dance with Bertran. She wore the soft white silk brocade gown that had been made for her thirteenth birthday, and, like Hortense, she had fastened her curls with a comb, a large gilt one of her mother’s which she had borrowed. When they finished, Marie Josephine made Bertran a deep curtsy. She waited until the others were talking and then slipped out of the room. She drew the thick red silk shawl closely about her as she stepped out on to the terrace.

The moon was almost full, and its light seemed to bring out each leaf and twig of the great oak at the foot of the terrace steps with startling distinctness. As she stood there in the radiance of the moon, she thought she saw something move under the tree. Some one shrank back into the shadow and moved quickly into the deep underbrush. Marie Josephine waited. She knew that, if it really were any one, after he had gone through the shrubbery, she would see him cross the clearing that led to the forest. In a few moments she saw a woman pass rapidly through the clearing, making for the wood and going in the direction of the gates. The moonlight had fallen full upon her and there was something vaguely familiar about her figure. Marie Josephine stood looking after her. Why was that figure so familiar? Who could it be? Why had she been hiding there in the shadow as though she were spying?

Marie Josephine’s mind was so full of another thought that she did not dwell long on the apparition of the woman, whoever she might be, for more than a minute. Then she ran down the terrace steps and disappeared in the direction of Mother Barbette’s cottage. As she had guessed, Mother Barbette herself was not in the cottage. She had gone to one of the hovels to nurse a boy who had hurt his leg. Marie Josephine called softly:

“Jean!”

Jean was sitting on the stone doorstep, but she had not seen him in the shadow of the moon and tree branches. He jumped up and came running to her.

“I’ve only come for a minute, Jean. Let’s sit on the doorstep. Isn’t the moonlight wonderful? We’ve had so much fun in the moonlight every summer, haven’t we? We’ve been comrades, Jean, great friends!” Marie Josephine put out the back of her hand as she spoke, and Pince Nez, the crow, lighted on it with a croak.

“Pince Nez will be two years old in June. Do you remember when Dian rescued him and brought him to the sheepfold? I can just see him now, lying on the shelf with his funny beak open.” Marie Josephine stroked the crow gently, and Pince Nez winked impudently.

Jean was sitting in the shadow, and as Marie Josephine went on speaking, his eyes grew rounder and rounder!

“We must always remember what friends we have been and be happy about it. You will grow to be a fine man, Jean. I am sure of that. You must always help Grigge. Dian would wish you to.” Marie Josephine paused and sat silently looking off at the black outline of the wood.

Suddenly Jean jumped up and stood in front of her.

“Tell me, Little Mademoiselle, tell me what you are thinking about.”

“I am thinking how I love Pigeon Valley, Jean.” She jumped up also and put her hand on his arm. “I—oh, that’s all!”

Jean spoke again, softly and quickly.

“You are thinking of the plan, I know you are. You are going to do that—no, I won’t say it, but no one can hear us.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You are going to run away to Paris. I know you are!”

They walked on through the wood path, and when they came to the sundial, she turned and faced him.

“You are always making up mysteries, you funny boy,” she said. “I must run, for it’s past my bedtime. Good night, Jean!” she cried over her shoulder. As she ran toward the house the hot tears chased down her cheeks. It was the hardest thing she had ever experienced, not telling Jean what she was going to do that very night!

Cécile and Denise were sitting in front of a log fire in Cécile’s bedroom when Marie Josephine came in to say good night. Cécile was talking in her gentle way and she looked up smilingly when Marie Josephine came in.

“I was telling Denise that we must make the best of this wonderful spring weather, and we’ve been planning a picnic. What do you say to a lunch out of doors in the birch woods soon, and a violet picking expedition afterward?”

Marie Josephine nodded. Her tongue was dry, and for the moment she found it easier to nod than to speak. She had wiped away her tears from her face, but she felt them in her heart.

Denise yawned and stood up.

“I for one am sleepy. Bertran and I had a splendid ride. It is stupid of Le Pont, though, not to let us go out of the demesne just because that bailiff person said it was not safe. Why, our roads about Les Vignes are the safest in the whole world! Good night; and let us each one dream of the true loves we are going to have!” Denise laughed gaily and twirled around on her blue satin bedroom slippers, their crystal buckles sparkling in the firelight.

When she had gone, Marie Josephine sat down on the floor in front of the fire.

“You look so perfectly dear to-night with your hair caught up that way, Marie Josephine. I can shut my eyes and see you as you’ll be four years from now. The red shawl becomes you, too. Just wait, you’ll have your true loves, I’m sure of that!” Cécile said, leaning back against the dark brocaded velvet chair.

Marie Josephine turned toward her eagerly. “Do you really think so, Cécile? Ah, tell me,” as she went on speaking she came close up to Cécile’s chair, kneeling with both hands on the arm of it, “Cécile, you will always love me. You’ll always trust me, won’t you?” There was something so intense in the look she gave her friend that Cécile leaned forward and gazed at her.

“Why yes, yes, of course. What is it, Marie Josephine!” she exclaimed.

“I—oh, nothing—that is, let me just give you a big hug.” Marie Josephine put both arms about her friend and hugged her. Then she jumped up quickly.

“Proté will be tired waiting up for me. Good night, Cécile!” She ran over to the door, then turned and waved her hand toward Cécile, who waved back. Then she went to her own room.

Proté tucked the bedclothes neatly about her when she said good night. She was one of those who could not think of Marie Josephine’s ever growing up, and she spoke authoritatively as she blew out the candle.

“You must be careful about the chill night air, Little Mademoiselle. It is not good, you know. Keep well covered, and do not, I beg of you, go over to the window to see the moon!” Proté’s round face was serious. She felt a great responsibility toward all the children, especially the youngest one, the Little Mademoiselle.

“Come here a minute, you funny Proté. Now bend over and I’ll squeeze you tight. Proté, look at Trudle. Hasn’t she a smug face? Never let them know that she sleeps with me. Can’t you fairly see their horror! 'She is nearly fourteen and she sleeps with her doll!’ Proté chérie, you are a dear and I love you. Here’s one more squeeze! Good night.”

Proté returned her charge’s embrace fervently, and then went over to the doorway. As she went out she looked back at the little figure in the great bed.

“Good night, Little Mademoiselle. God guard you!” she said.

Marie Josephine lay very still, the wooden-faced doll beside her. She heard a clock strike ten and then eleven, and after waiting a few moments, jumped lightly out of bed, and going over to the door, bolted it. Then, aided only by the moonlight streaming in through the wide casement near her bed, she went over to a cupboard and, standing on a chair, reached back as far as she could and lifted out a box. She jumped down and went over to the bed with the box and opened it. She drew out a shabby, rather soiled, black calico apron. She began to dress herself rapidly, discarding her lace-trimmed petticoat and putting on plain garments such as a peasant child would wear. Over them she put the black, smocklike apron. She went over to the dressing table, and opening a drawer, fished about until she found a pair of scissors. Then she began to clip her hair. It fell in soft, warm waves on to her shoulders and thence to the floor. When she had finished, she looked into the glass and by the light of the moon was able to see herself plainly.

She saw a pale little girl with big, black eyes, whose ragged, unkempt-looking black locks flapped about her face! She smiled into the glass and the forlorn, black-clad figure smiled back at her. Then she put on a warm, worn jacket with a torn sleeve, tucked a black handkerchief about her neck and tossed back her uneven wisps of black hair. She took a bundle from the box on the bed and, after one glance about the room, unbolted the door and went out, closing it softly behind her.

She crept along the hall until she came to Madame Le Pont’s room. She stopped by the closed door and wrapped a note about the knob. After waiting a moment and listening, she went back to her own door. There was a whine and a scratch on the other side. It was Flambeau, who had slept soundly while she was dressing, but who had awakened and missed her.

“Listen, Flambeau,” she breathed through the keyhole. “I’d love to take you with me, doggie, but I’m going where you couldn’t go. I want you and Jean to go along more than, more than——” Her voice trailed into a soft sob. This would never do. She turned away and ran silently and swiftly through the great house, unlocked a small door leading on to a little balcony over the rose garden, and jumped lightly down a distance of a few feet on to the soft new grass of the east terrace.

Then she was off like the wind, her bundle under her arm. She looked back once at the great house, so silver white under the moon. She entered the wood, so fresh and wild and sweet, on this early spring night. Startled wild things in the bushes stirred and scampered at her approach. She must do one thing—she must have one last look at Mother Barbette’s cottage. She stopped running as she caught sight of it through the budding trees. There it was, so warm and snug and red with its straight, quaint stone chimney, its neat stone doorstep. Marie Josephine looked and looked at it as though she could never look long enough or hard enough. Then she turned and walked slowly away. As she entered the wood path again, she thought she saw something moving in the shadow. She had thought the same thing on her way to the cottage. She could not be frightened in her own woods of Les Vignes, but she started to run, and ran on and on, taking the cut through the hedge near the gates as Dian had done, and, like him, going to the huts. She did not knock as he had done, but put her mouth close to the keyhole.

“Grigge!” she called, very softly. Almost before she knew it the door opened and Grigge’s gaunt, long face peered through the opening. When he saw Marie Josephine he came out and closed the door. He did not recognize her at first, and when she spoke his astonishment was so great that he rubbed his eyes with his jacket sleeve and stared at her open-mouthed.

“Listen, Grigge, I have only time to speak a word with you. I am going to find Dian, and to help him and the others, if I can. I want you to know. And, Grigge,” she came a step closer and looked up at him earnestly, “I feel that you can do so much here among the people. For Dian’s sake, help us now. I know that everyone is leaving us, and that there is wild talking in the barns and through the fields. Grigge, I know that you have nothing to be grateful for to us, but will you not help us now? Stay and care for Dian’s sheep. Do not join the wild crowds in the townships.” She touched his arm in farewell and was off, flying down the road as though her feet had wings.

Grigge stood looking after her, so dazed that he could not credit his senses. He had come out half asleep and found a shock-haired peasant girl at his door who had spoken to him with the voice of the Little Mademoiselle! What was it she had said? Do not join the wild crowds in the townships! Little she knew of those crowds, or of anything but ease and luxury. She was right, he had nothing to be grateful for to a Saint Frère. He hated them root and branch. He stood looking after Marie Josephine as she sped away along the moonlit road, as though he could not believe his eyes. Where was she going, and what did it mean? Then some of her words came back to him: “Stay and care for Dian’s sheep!” He went into the close hovel and threw himself down on his oat-straw shakedown.

Marie Josephine ran and ran until she could run no more. At last she sank down in the shadow of a newly-budded oak, breathing hard, her bundle at her side. As she sat there she heard a sound which surprised her, a sound of swiftly running steps which might almost have been an echo of her own! She shrank back farther in the shadow. Some one was running toward her through a dark side path of a meadow close to the road. She stood up, took a step forward, and cried, “Jean!”

He sank down under the tree and for several seconds could do nothing but pant painfully. At last he took one deep, long breath and spoke.

“I almost lost you. You led me such a dance! You ran as though you had lightning in your shoes. I even called to you and begged you to wait, but you did not hear!”

Marie Josephine was so glad to see him that she could not speak. Finally she said:

“You came; but how did you know?”

“I just thought it was to-night from the way you spoke when we sat there on the doorstep. I knew that, because of Petite Mère, you would never let me come with you, but I’ve come, I’ve come. I’ve never been anywhere at all, and now I’m going with you. I’m going to take care of you! We’ve come a long way and we can’t go back! I watched for you by the terrace. I crept out when I heard Petite Mère snoring. Then when I saw you, I followed you. I hid behind the hedge while you talked with Grigge. Name of a name, but he was dumb with surprise. I ran near you along the meadow, but you went so fast and I stumbled twice and fell. I’m going with you. You can’t stop me. I’m going all the way!”

Marie Josephine jumped up and took his hand. She was so glad that he had come that the tears brimmed over and rolled down her cheeks.

“It’s naughty, it’s awful—it’s wonderful! Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come. We must not waste another second here. We must not rest at all until daylight.”

They started to walk at a swift pace, holding hands, the bundle flopping over Jean’s shoulder. All about them was the sweetness and mystery of the night, and before them, the lure of adventure!

Chapter XVII

AT THE OLD GREEN MILL-INN

“It’s the old mill. We’ve walked all night and we’ve only come to the mill!”

Marie Josephine stood still in the middle of the road. They had come out from the cool shade of the forest road and the early morning sunshine greeted them. The sky was faintly blue and everywhere there was the sleepy twitter of birds.

They had walked steadily all night, except for occasional rests by the wayside.

“We might have our déjeuner here, some hot coffee and a petit pain. We can rest while we eat it,” suggested Marie Josephine, and Jean assented eagerly. He was too excited as yet to be really tired, it was all so utterly new to him. He had never been as far as the forest by the old mill in all his life. He kept thinking over and over:

“Petite Mère will soon be waking and she’ll find that I’m gone!”

As they came up to the mill-inn, a woman stood in the doorway. When she saw her, Marie Josephine stopped, hesitated, and would have turned away but the woman said sharply:

“What do you want, you two little tramps?”

Marie Josephine answered, “We’re not tramps, but we’re very hungry and want some breakfast. We can pay for it.”

“You’re not to say that she is a tramp,” put in Jean indignantly, nodding toward Marie Josephine. The woman paid no attention to him. She was looking steadily at Marie Josephine, and as she looked, Marie Josephine could feel the color come into her cheeks. Could it be that the inn woman recognized her as the young Mademoiselle who had eaten déjeuner there the summer before? There was something about the woman which was familiar, something more than the remembrance of the summer before. Marie Josephine caught her breath. She suddenly remembered the figure she had seen under the oak tree after dinner the night before. She caught Jean’s hand and started to turn away, but at that moment the woman gave an exclamation and looked off toward the forest path. The children followed her glance. There, coming toward them, running lightly, and clearing a big mud puddle in the middle of the road with a bound, was Flambeau!

He leaped upon Marie Josephine, fairly devouring her with kisses. There was no use in pretending, Flambeau had given them away! He gave short, staccato barks of joy, turning to jump on Jean, licking his face and hands, and then turning again to his little mistress.

The inn woman looked from one to the other of them keenly, her face now alive with interest. She stared at Marie Josephine as hard as she could. Then she exclaimed:

“The dog seems to know you well. I have seen him before and, if I’m not mistaken, I’ve seen you, too.” As she spoke, she pushed Marie Josephine gently toward the door, looking over her shoulder at Jean. “You can come in. I’ll have some coffee and a bit of bread for you soon. You can rest awhile, for you both looked fagged out.”

Marie Josephine, though she was almost inside the door, tried to pull herself away from the woman.

“No, Jean, we’ll go on, we don’t want breakfast here,” she said, but the woman had stretched out her arm and pulled Jean in, too.

“Don’t be stupid. Of course you must have food, or you’ll not be able to take the rest of your journey, wherever it is you’re going.” The woman spoke kindly and shut the door after them. Flambeau had been the first to enter the mill-inn, and he bounded across the oddly-shaped room, still barking his delight.

“Well, what do you think of this for a good resting place? See, there’s a window cut in the side over there so you can see the forest.” The woman was standing in front of the door, and as Marie Josephine and Jean followed the direction of her finger, and looked out at the road leading to the forest path, she quietly and quickly turned the key in the lock and put it in her pocket.

“Now I’ll tell you what you can do. Go up those stairs and you’ll find a nice little room at the top. It has tables and chairs just like this one, and there’s a fireplace there. I built a bit of fire early, for the mill gets damp even on spring nights. You both go up there and rest, and I’ll bring your coffee up to you. I’ll bring a bone and some milk for the dog, too,” she said. Marie Josephine’s heart beat fast as she listened. Did the woman remember how she had fed Flambeau the summer before? Could it be that she was the person underneath the oak? This dark woman at the inn had been spying on them at Les Vignes!

Marie Josephine followed Jean up the funny winding stairs. They found the room at the top. There were tables and chairs in it, just as the woman had said. They went over to a table near the small fire. There were white muslin curtains at the single window and a pot of geraniums stood on the sill. It was a neat, cheerful room, and if she had not been anxious, Marie Josephine would have loved it, for the fact that the familiar, old olive mill, which she had always known, had been turned into an inn interested her very much. As it was, she turned to Jean as soon as they had shut the door, and catching him firmly by the arm, whispered fiercely:

“It’s not safe here. She’s a spy. I saw her under our oak tree last night. I saw her going through the wood. There’s a dark cloak on the chair by the door downstairs. She wore it last night and she hasn’t been back very long, even though she did have four hours’ start of us. She knows who I am. Flambeau gave us away. She remembers him from last summer when we stopped here for déjeuner. Hush! I hear her!” Marie Josephine ran across the room and, when the door opened, she was looking out of the window. The side of the mill was painted green and there was an eave’s trough along it. An apple tree showing faintly pink and white swayed in the early morning breeze, its branches making a tapping sound as they flapped against the rough wall of the mill.

The woman Paulette came across to the fire and put down a tray.

“I had a sip of coffee early myself and so I just warmed some up for the two of you. It’s cold in the morning around here, even if spring has come,” she said. “Draw up to the table now and make yourselves at home. The brown bread will be to your taste, and there’s honey in the blue dish. Here’s milk for the dog.” The woman took a tin dish off the tray and, bending over, called, “Come, doggie,” as she put it on the floor.

Marie Josephine went over to the table and sat down, and Jean followed her example. He was astonished at what his friend had told him. Suddenly he felt so tired after walking all night that he was not a bit like his usual bright, eager self.

“It does look good. There’s nothing I like better than bread and honey!” Marie Josephine exclaimed, pouring coffee from a brown jug into one of the two white cups and handing the cup to Jean. As she spoke she smiled a little wanly at the woman. She had spoken as cheerfully as she could and she hoped that she had not let the woman see that she suspected her.

Paulette eyed them both shrewdly.

“I’ll just go down and leave you to a quiet meal. There may be a coach party in for lunch, for even though it is out of the regular beat we get them sometimes.” She crossed the room and went out as she spoke. As she pushed the blue dish of honey toward Jean, Marie Josephine felt her heart sink and for a moment the lump in her throat was so big she could not swallow. She had heard the woman’s key click in the lock!

Jean took a huge slice of bread and honey in his two hands and bit a big half moon in it. He was so hungry that it didn’t seem to him as though anything else mattered very much for the moment, but when he saw Marie Josephine’s face he put down the bread and looked at her.

“It isn’t so bad here, Little Mademoiselle. The woman seems kind enough. You couldn’t have seen her at Les Vignes,” he protested.

Marie Josephine ate a slice of bread and drank some coffee before she replied. “We must keep up our strength,” she said. In spite of the peril of the situation she almost had a thrill at the thought that here indeed was an adventure, one that held all sorts of possibilities. She turned to Jean and her eyes were as big as saucers as she said to him:

“How many times must I tell you not to call me the Little Mademoiselle? You are to say Jo. I’ve reminded you twice already. You must remember, Jean. We are locked in here and we are prisoners. Don’t you understand?”

Jean jumped up and ran over to the door and tried it. It would not open. They were locked in!

“She recognized me, but not for certain until Flambeau came. Oh, how did he get out!” Flambeau left his dish of milk and came up to Marie Josephine at the sound of his name, and she put her face against his back. “Flambeau, why did you come? You’ve caused all the trouble. What shall we do with you?”

Jean was now fully awake to the situation and, although he was frightened, he was excited and alert. He nodded at Marie Josephine.

“It’s come, hasn’t it? You know we’ve always wanted an adventure! What would they say if they knew at Les Vignes, Lit—” Jean caught himself just in time, “Jo.”

Marie Josephine had jumped up from the table while Jean was speaking. She clasped her hands together and put her face down on them, and the tears trickled through her fingers.

“We must get away, we must. Why, they will discover that we’ve gone very soon now. It must be nearly seven. They will be sending Neville to find us, and his horse is fleet.” She caught her breath with a sob as she spoke.

“It’s a long ride, and if we do get away I’m not afraid that Neville will find us, for we are small and can hide easy, Jo,” Jean said, and Marie Josephine smiled faintly. She had no pocket handkerchief and so rubbed her sleeve across her eyes.

“How stupid I am to cry. We must do something at once, Jean. We—but what can we do?”

Jean ran over to the window and looked out. He tugged at the knob, for the window shut like a small door. Marie Josephine came up to him and when he tired of tugging at it she tried to move it. It was a little swollen by recent dampness, but after Jean tugged the second time it gave, swung open, and the fresh morning air greeted them. Something else greeted them, too. It was the sweet pink and whiteness of the apple tree. Jean leaned way out on the window ledge and looked around, his eyes shining excitedly. Then he turned and faced Marie Josephine.

“It’s risky, but I think there’s a chance that we can reach the tree. The eave’s trough, don’t you see, holding on to the roof where it curves down!” he said.

She leaned way over and peered up at the low roof and then down at the eave’s trough. It curved down and ran straight across the side of the mill, just below them. There was not a moment to lose, for the woman would be coming back soon for the tray.

“We can try. But Flambeau! We can’t leave him. Could he, do you think—would he follow us?”

Jean nodded. “I believe he would, and there’s no other way. Yes, I know he would, for he’s always followed us everywhere. I’ll go first, then you, and you’ll see that he’ll come. He can balance well. And oh, yes, don’t you remember the time he walked the ledge of the summer house when we were playing ship?” Jean whispered eagerly but softly.

Marie Josephine nodded. “You go and I’ll follow,” she whispered back.

Jean turned toward the table. “The bread, Jo! You said you had money for food, and we need the bread.”

Marie Josephine felt in her pocket and drew out a bag. In it were some coins and she put one on the table. Then she handed the loaf to Jean and he put it inside his blouse, buttoning his jacket over it. He jumped up on the sill and, turning carefully, reached up and caught the overhanging ledge of the roof. Then he cautiously put one foot along the ledge, drawing the other up to it, and in that way made slow but sure progress toward the welcoming branches of the tree.

Marie Josephine listened carefully, her eyes on Jean. When Jean was safe she turned and put her hand on Flambeau’s head.

“You’re to follow, Flambeau, and you’re not to be afraid. You must follow,” she whispered. Then she jumped up on to the window sill, turned, and grasped the ledge of the roof as Jean had done. She heard the swish of the tree as he caught the branches, but she dared not look around. She did not dare to think of the woman Paulette, and she tried, for the moment, not to think of Flambeau, but that was not so easy, for there was an appealing squeal from the window sill. Then horrors! A sharp bark!

Marie Josephine called softly, “Flambeau, come!” She held on to the ledge and looked back, and, to her joy, saw the dog put his slender feet on to the trough and gingerly step forward. “Come, Flambeau, good doggie, pet, come!” she called again softly. Then she turned, caught at the branches, held them with every bit of strength in her body, swayed with them, dipping down through their leafy sweetness, loosening her hold the instant her feet touched the ground. She swayed and staggered, half fell over, but was up in an instant, and with Jean looked upward at Flambeau. He had reached the edge of the trough, and was looking down. Soon they saw that he had spied what they had not seen, a broad, thick branch some four feet below the trough. He leaped down, scrambled among the smaller branches for a moment, then jumped safely to the ground and ran with bounds after the two friends who seemed to scarcely touch their feet to the earth as they sped down the road, away from the forest, the old mill-inn, and the dark woman, Paulette!

They often wondered afterward how they had ever run so fast after their night of travel. Fear seemed to race behind them, and they were sure they heard the woman running and calling, but they never looked back to see. At last they could not run any longer. They came to a crossroad and sat down near the edge of the road, panting and exhausted. There was no one in sight and they rested for some little time before they could talk at all. Then Jean said, “There must be quicksilver in your feet, Jo,” and they both laughed.

Jean laughed the most, throwing back his head and shouting. He was so tired and excited that he could not seem to stop. “You look so awful, Jo. You are so untidy and dirty and ugly,” he said.

“It’s good that I do look just this way, for no one will know me. Poor Flambeau, see how tired he is. If only he hadn’t come. But wasn’t he wonderful there at the inn?”

There was the sound of wheels coming the other way, and they looked up and saw that a coach was approaching. Flambeau ran toward it, and as he came up to it, started to bark. The driver of the coach stopped and looked at him, and then at Marie Josephine and Jean.

“You both look fagged out. If you’re going my way I’ll give you a lift,” he said.

They came up to the side of the coach, and as they stood there it seemed as though everything went round and round before Marie Josephine’s eyes.

“We are tired, and so is Flambeau,” she said faintly. Then she scrambled up somehow into the back of the coach, and Jean followed her.

“We are going to Melon and beyond toward Paris. I have cousins near Melon,” Jean said to the man, and this was true.

There was only one other passenger in the cart, a fat market woman who kept muttering to herself, and every now and then leaning over a wooden box at her feet and saying, “Hush your gab. You’ll squawk all the way to Paris, I know you will.” The very disagreeable noise of imprisoned hens answered her. Marie Josephine remembered feeling sorry for the hens, and then she knew nothing more, for she fell into the deepest sleep she had ever known.

She woke suddenly, sat bolt upright, and rubbed her eyes. When she had fallen asleep she had felt the sun on her face, but as she woke the soft glimmer of stars greeted her. Jean was awake. He sat up beside the driver of the coach, talking busily. It was Flambeau’s caress which had roused her. He was lying close beside her. The hens were quiet and the woman was asleep. The kind man who drove the coach was smoking a pipe. Outside in the dusk the good-night call of birds came to them drowsily.

“You have to be very still when you catch them or you will frighten them away,” Jean was saying. “I always let them go. They are such dear little things I always free them after just a little while.” He seemed to be having the best kind of a time sitting up there by the driver. Marie Josephine hoped he would be very careful what he said, he was such a little chatterbox.

It had been so strange waking that way in the coach, for she had been dreaming of Lisle and had seen his face so vividly in her dream. He had on the velvet robes of the “Sun King,” and the jewels in his sword had sparkled as they had done on the night that he had sat beside her on the bed and told her that she was going to Les Vignes. What would he say if he could see her now? He would not even know that this funny, dirty girl was his little sister, Marie Josephine!

She had become used to the idea that she was going to run away to Paris. But in spite of her imagination she had somehow never quite been able to visualize it. Now it was a reality! She thought so much of the hidden cellar and of all that grandfather had told her that spring day so long ago.

“It is to be your secret unless by disclosing it you can save a life,” he had said. Paris, and all that was happening there, seemed like a bad dream. She had never really believed that anything could happen to her mother and Lisle. She often thought of the “other one” who knew of the cellar, and wondered if that person was helping, too. The waiting at Les Vignes for news of maman and Lisle had been more than she could bear.

The cart stopped with a jerk, and the driver turned his head.

“Are you awake back there in the cart? Do you hear me, girl?” he asked. “We’re almost at Melon. Are you going on to your cousins, or what will you do?”

Marie Josephine was alert in a moment. They must make the best of the darkness and of their long rest. She judged that Jean had told the driver to ask her, not knowing himself what she wanted to do.

“We’ll go on, thank you kindly. Come, Jean,” she replied, climbing down the side of the cart. Jean jumped off the driver’s seat and waved his cap up at him.

“That was a good ride and I slept enough to last a week when those old hens got quiet!” He laughed up at the driver as he spoke.

Suddenly a voice called through the darkness, “Are you Champar, the driver to the Calais road?” The next moment a boy with a round, honest face came up to the cart.

“That’s me,” the coach driver answered.

“Well, do you go near Pigeon Valley?” the boy asked.

“Not often, about once a month. I take in that way on my next route, and then go straight on toward Calais, but I have to détour so much now it’s the hardest trip I have. I have to keep out of the way of cannon, my boy, and the army, and maybe fighting!” The driver spoke importantly.

“Well, anyway you don’t have any of that as far as Pigeon Valley.” The boy came close to the cart and spoke in a low tone. Marie Josephine could not hear. Evidently the man made some emphatic statement and the boy replied in a louder tone, “Never mind, if you don’t go straight there with the coach.” Then he handed the driver something white which looked like a letter. Marie Josephine heard him say:

“I’ll see that he gets it safely.” With that, Champar, the coach driver, whipped up his horses, waved his whip at them all, and drove on.

Chapter XVIII

VIVI SEES THE OTHER SIDE OF THE GATES

Raoul kicked one leg against the other. He was ill at ease, as any one could have seen had they taken the trouble to watch him. Soufflot, the seed shopman, seated on an overturned box in the market gardener’s room, was holding forth as usual to some of his cronies. Dian sat apart from the others, his hands folded on his knees. Raoul came up to him, and stood before him, looking up at him. He had gone with his master to the country the day after he had made fun of Humphrey at the West Barricade, more than a fortnight ago now, and so he had not seen Dian since.

“Good day, master shepherd. It’s a long time since we’ve walked out together, but now that you’re acquainted with the city perhaps you’ll not want my company.” He hesitated a moment and then he colored all over his honest face as he went on, “I’m none too proud of taunting the funny fat man at the West Barricade.”

Dian smiled. “It was not a thing of which to be proud, that I’m bound to say. One can go far if one has Humphrey Trail for a friend. The best thing for you to do, if you are sorry, is to tell him so. Mayhap you’ll be able to do something to atone for it one day! As for a walk, I’ll be glad to go out with you. There’s too much talking here, words that do nothing and mean less.” As he spoke, Dian rose to his great height and put his cloak about his shoulders. He crossed the room and had his hand on the knob of the door when something that Soufflot said made him pause.

“We can take what we want, that’s what we can do. There was plenty of grab awhile ago, but things are getting soft. I say let’s pillage!”

“There’s plenty of plunder about. Last week the jewels from a rue Royale shop were scattered from one end of the street to the other. The aristocrats and the anti-patriots are filling every jail in the city. We are taking over the best houses now for official headquarters.”

“What houses?” It was Dian who asked the question.

“I’ve a list.” Soufflot’s friend, a blacksmith of the Saint Antoine district, drew a paper from his pocket as he replied. He was thought well of in his district as a zealous patriot, and he enjoyed the importance. “We were each given one of these lists at the meeting of our section last night. I was sorry not to see you there, farmer,” he said, looking across at Dian, who still stood by the door. “Let’s see,” he went on, “they still have a number of decisions to make as to houses for official headquarters. There are any number whose former occupants have gone—so!” As he spoke the blacksmith dashed his hand across his throat, making a grating click with his tongue against his teeth.

The seed shopman laughed and so did the market gardener. The blacksmith pondered over his list.

“The hotel of the De Roumande family near the corner of the square by the Pont-Saint Michel. The hotel of the Framandes at 80 Champs Élysées, all the hotels of aristocrats within two blocks of the Place de la Concorde. The hotel of the Marquise du Ganne at 90 rue du Paradis.” The blacksmith chuckled. “The old bird croaked out some little time ago. Our authorities took care of the interment; and we’ve taken care of the niece, too; the proud Comtesse Saint Frère. She’s there safe as can be!”

Dian opened the door and went out, followed by Raoul. They walked away from the gates toward the city. Dian was silent, thinking how best to take the direction of the house of the Marquise du Ganne without arousing Raoul’s suspicions. He felt thankful enough when the boy spoke.

“I would like to see some of these houses of the aristocrats. They say any citizen may go in. Let’s go to the Framande house. I used to keep the cooks there in stitches of laughter, turning somersaults all up and down the kitchens when I brought the fresh produce in.”

Dian nodded assent. “Well enough then, if you like. I, too, would not mind a glimpse at some of them. You know the way, so I’ll follow your lead,” he said.

They walked up the great wide avenue, turning on to it from the rue Royale. Raoul looked back over his shoulder. At the end of the avenue the great giant guillotine showed black against a blue spring sky.

“I’ll tell you something I saw, Shepherd, if you’ll keep a quiet tongue in your head. There is a boy shut up in the bakery shop, the big, smart one on the rue Saint Honoré. I saw him quite by accident. I’ve not told any one. He’s an aristocrat, I’m sure; he had on a velvet suit.”

Raoul then told Dian everything he knew as they walked toward the Framande house. It was natural enough that the shepherd should question him, and he found out that, as far as Raoul could tell, the prisoner had looked well, had been dressed in his usual way, and had had a tray of milk and cakes carried up to him by a woman whom Raoul declared to be kind.

“He could have worse than her looking after him, whoever he is. She’s given me many a cup of hot coffee and a cake on cold days. She’s good enough; but the boy’s in bad hands if he’s a prisoner of her husband! He’ll have him up before the Tribunal for trial when the time is ripe. You mark my words, he’s going to get some sort of plum for himself out of this pudding!” Dian listened to Raoul in silence, making no comment except to ask a few questions. Since he had found the note in the cake he had waited quietly for the next development. He trusted that he would be shown the right way and he had spoken confidently to Humphrey Trail when that impetuous soul longed for action.

He was thinking of Humphrey and of Rosanne as he walked with Raoul along the Champs Élysées. He saw Humphrey every day and he knew that Rosanne was safe with Vivi, but he realized, as did also the Yorkshire man, that Rosanne must not remain longer in the alley. Vivi was out now playing about the gates and plying her father’s trade of selling licorice water. She was the best little soul in the world, and she loved Rosanne, but she was very young and she had never learned to keep things to herself. She might, without meaning to, say something which would cause suspicion and bring an investigating body of citizen soldiers to the alley. There was only one place where Rosanne could be safe until the opportunity came to take her out of Paris, and that was in the hidden cellar.

They found a noisy mob about the Framande house and sights that were bad to see, for the crowds were out looting and robbing and killing. They turned away, glad to be on a quiet street, and walked on in silence a few minutes. Then Dian said:

“There were other houses. There was one on the rue du Paradis, the Du Ganne place, was it not? Let us see what is going on there.”

Raoul nodded. “I know that one well, too. The old lady used to give great parties. She’s dead now, and her niece is prisoner there. I’d like to have a look at her!”

The house of the Marquise du Ganne was gloomy and big and forbidding. At the wide entrance door they were challenged by a soldier in the uniform of the Republic, who called:

“Who goes there? Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!”

Dian and Raoul answered: “Friends. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!” and went inside.

In the center of a long hall some men in uniform sat writing at a table. Citizens of Paris, some rough and ragged, walked about, but, for the most part, the place was quiet. One of the men glanced up from his writing and, when he saw Dian, nodded and beckoned to him. Dian went over to the table, recognizing him as one of the men who had attended Soufflot’s supper.

“Could you do me the favor of glancing at this, Shepherd? They say you know how to write and read well, and that”—the man peered up at Dian as he spoke—“that seems a passing strange thing for a shepherd.”

“The evenings are long in the country districts, citizen. I have worked through them until late into the night to glean the little knowledge I possess. But what is it I can do for you?” Dian replied.

“Just take a look at this notice I’ve written out and see if it’s readable to your eyes. Marat can’t do much more than write his name, so why should I care about doing any better?” As he spoke the official handed the sheet to Dian, who bent over it.

“There are some words I could change for you, and with your permission I’ll do it,” Dian said. The man consented and Dian sat down at the table and, painstakingly and slowly, corrected the garbled writing. Then he read it out to the official, who nodded with approval.

“You’ve done that well. You are clever, I see,” he commented, taking the paper from Dian and leaning back in his chair and yawning.

Dian was silent for a minute. He wanted to ask if there was any possibility of going through the house, hoping to get a word with the comtesse as he went through. He did not know just how to word his request without arousing suspicion. Raoul helped him out. He ran up to the table just then.

“Oh, citizen Parnette, do let us see the prisoner. Just one look is all I want,” he begged.

Citizen Parnette frowned. What an impudent youngster this messenger boy of his friend, the market gardener, was, to be sure!

“It’s not done, as a rule. They’d be up there, every last one of them, if they knew we had an aristocrat in keeping. Well, it won’t be for long now. She will go to La Force I daresay. You can have a look for friendship’s sake, but keep a quiet tongue about it. Go up the back stairway and straight down a hall. She’s in a room at the left and you can see her because the upper corner of the door is broken through. The mob did that when we first took the house over. She was in the west wing then, but we moved her to the other side.” The official bent over his writing, and Dian and Raoul went on through the long hall to the back of the house.

“Go on ahead of me, my lad. I’ll warrant you’ll take the steps three at a time, and I would take my leisure,” Dian said to Raoul as they came to the foot of a long flight of stairs. How often had the old comte spoken to him of this house of his aunt’s where he had spent so many days of his youth!

Raoul ran on up the steps three at a time, just as Dian had said he would. When he was well on in front, Dian took a small notebook and a piece of charcoal from the inner pocket of his cloak and, placing the book against the tapestry wall at the side of the stairs, wrote these words:

“Tear this after reading. Lisle is imprisoned in the bakery shop at rue Saint Honoré. I shall find a way to save him and to save you. Mademoiselle de Soigné is safe with friends. Keep up your courage. Dian.”

Then he went on up the stairs and down the hall. Raoul was already looking through the small, shattered paling at the side of the heavy, nail-studded door. There was a red brocaded curtain in front of the door. Raoul looked back over his shoulder.

“My, she’s grand and solemn looking. She’s sitting by the window!” He moved away so that Dian could peer through. The shepherd hesitated. It was not to his liking, this looking in on a woman, but he wanted to see what the room was like and to pass his note to the comtesse. He put his eyes to the opening and saw the comtesse sitting, as Raoul had said, by the narrow window, dressed in her black frock, her hands folded in her lap.

Raoul had roamed on down the hall, peering in at doors and shuffling his feet along the velvet carpet as he went.

Dian said softly, “Come to the door, Madame.”

The comtesse heard him, gave a start, and then came quickly across the room, both hands at her heart. She saw his face and recognized him at once. There was no time for more than a word. He dropped the note at her feet, whispering, “Be ready when I come.” Then he turned away and joined Raoul, who was already shuffling toward him.

They walked back toward the West Barricade together, and, as they walked, Raoul asked inquisitively: “Why do you not take us to your lodgings? Where is it that you stay?”

“I am lodging with friends. It is a dark, cold place, and there are rats about; but, because it is my friend’s house I am well pleased at being there. Listen to me well, Raoul! Would you like to prove yourself a lad to be trusted? You say you are sorry for hurting the honest farmer, Humphrey Trail. Would you like to do him a service?”

“Maybe,” answered Raoul in his teasing way; but Dian knew that he was teasing.

“See, Raoul, I am treating you as a man. I am trusting you. Does that mean something to you?”

Raoul nodded. “Yes, Master Shepherd, I like you. I would serve you,” he answered simply.

“Then listen well. I would ask you to take a letter to Champar, the cross-eyed coach driver on the Amiens road. The crossroad where he turns toward Melon is only a few miles from your master’s farm. You are simply to hand him the letter and say nothing.” Dian looked down earnestly at Raoul’s simple, round face.

“You may trust me right well, Shepherd,” Raoul said. “I’ll see that Champar gets the letter safe enough.”

They had reached the gates, and they stood for a while watching the carts go through. Suddenly they saw Vivi. She carried a tray from which dangled a row of tin cups, and on the top of which was balanced a tall pewter jug.

“Licorice water, licorice water! Who’s thirsty?” she called out at intervals, and she did quite a thriving trade as she went about among the people.

“Hi there, girl, another cup for me. Sacré, it’s a poor drink, but I don’t see any wine kegs about, and it’s thirsty work seeing that no aristocrats get through the gates,” said a soldier coming up to her.

Vivi grinned at him from under her straggling black locks as she poured some of the sweet grey mixture into one of the cups. She liked to have adventures so that she could tell Rosanne about them at night. She meant to stop at a little shop she knew on the rue Saint Antoine and buy a bit of sweet cake as a treat for Rosanne’s supper. Now that she had a few pennies to spend she liked to buy some little thing to cheer her friend, for whom the days dragged slowly.

“Let me go through the gates, Georges Fardou, just for fun,” she pleaded.

The soldier in charge gave a good-natured laugh and looked down at her.

“That’s so, you’re poor old one-legged Ranboeau’s brat. That was a bad deal your father got when the lumber fell. Let you through the gates, is it? What would you do on the other side?” he asked.

“Pick some flowers and come right back,” answered Vivi, hitching up the tray which was held about her neck by a leather strap.

The soldier in charge laughed and turned to another.

“She wants to pick some flowers on the other side of the gates. Well, go through and see how many you’ll find!” He held open the gate far enough for Vivi to step through, and they all laughed at her as she looked about curiously.

“It’s a great sight, isn’t it? No one was curious until they had to stay this side, but since the gates have been locked you’d think they thought the fields of paradise were just near by,” laughed Georges Fardou.

There were no flowers, only a long stretch of road, the vanishing bulk of a market cart in the distance, and the vivid spring sky above. Vivi looked about her and then, putting her tray down, began to dance and sing:

“Dansons la Carmagnole,

Vive le son du canon!”

The soldiers looked on, calling out approvingly:

“That’s good. She might be a sans-culotte herself! Give us the 'Ça Ira,’ too!”

Vivi danced and sang with all her might, enjoying the attention she got very much. When Fardou called her, she picked up her tray and came inside the gates, making a bow to the guard, who bowed mockingly in return.

“Thank you, citizeness, for the entertainment. We shall see you one day at the Comédie Française, I daresay,” he remarked.

“Thank you, Georges Fardou, for letting me outside the gates. It is not so nice there as I thought.” She swung her leather strap over her shoulder and went on crying her wares: “Licorice water, who wants licorice water!”

Dian left Raoul and went to Humphrey Trail’s room in the alley. He had not expected to find Humphrey in, but was only too glad to see his broad kindly face looking around the corner of the door as he came up the stairs.

“I’ve seen Madame Saint Frère,” Dian said as soon as he came into the room. Then he proceeded to tell Humphrey all about the morning. Humphrey’s face shone.

“Tha has done well and there’s now a bit o’ light ahead. Th’ young lad, to think, he is in the bakery shop. How shall we save th’ lad?” Humphrey wrung his fat hands together as he spoke.

“We shall do it, Humphrey Trail, and, if I have done well, you have done better, for though I have dreams and the hope that they will come true, you have already saved a little girl.” Dian smiled his slow smile and Humphrey Trail answered him:

“Tha has something more than I ha’! Tha has trust!” As he spoke Humphrey sighed, longing for the confidence which made Dian so sure that Lisle would be rescued. He thought of the letter which Dian was holding until he found the right messenger to deliver it to Champar, the trusted coach driver, who would, in turn, give it into the hands of Grigge, who lived at the gates of the Saint Frère demesne.

Chapter XIX

IN THE BAKERY SHOP AND OUT OF IT

The baker from the rue Saint Honoré was so cross that he glowered at his wife when she handed him a cup of steaming, nicely sweetened coffee and a plate of cream buns. He was worried, which was one reason for his being cross. He snapped out these words as he took a long drink of the good coffee:

“There’s no telling what will be standing from one day to the next. They’re looting and burning everything that takes their fancy! They’ve got the idea this place is too aristocratic. They know it used to be serving royalty. You mark my words, they’ll get us yet!” The baker put his head in his hands with a gesture of despair.

He meant the mobs which went from one end of the city to the other, plundering and stealing and destroying everything upon which they could lay their hands. They were mad with hunger, many of them, and there was no one to guide them; rather were they encouraged in their lawlessness by the very men who should have curbed them, and they lost all semblance of civilized beings.

“You’re as bad as any of them, keeping that boy a prisoner upstairs. Why don’t you put on a uniform and go out with our brave soldiers and fight for liberty in a clean way, instead of staying at home and turning coward and villain!” exclaimed the bakery woman with sudden courage.

“I’ll ask you to keep a civil tongue in your head and I’ll have no more of your spoiling of that boy. What he needs is a little wholesome discipline, with his proud face and haughty ways. I couldn’t get a word out of him when I went up there last night; but I’ll try something more persuasive than words if he doesn’t look out. I’ll not put up with his impudence, and I’m going to find out if he knows anything of where the girl might be. I’m going to find out now!”

The baker finished his coffee with one long gulp and rose from his chair in the outer kitchen. It was evening, and because of the bad times in that quarter they were closing early. He went through the storeroom, up the stairs to the room where Lisle was. He unlocked the door and went in, closing the door behind him.

Lisle was standing by the table. As the baker came up to him he pushed aside the paper and pen he had been using.

“I’ve come for a word with you and you’ll do well to answer me straight. Where do you think the girl may be?”

The baker came close up to Lisle and regarded him severely. Lisle returned his look steadily.

“What girl?” he asked.

“You know well enough what girl. You left her there in the room of your house when you went to the cellar for wood. She wasn’t to be found when we looked for her. She wasn’t anywhere about. You’ll have to say where you think she may be, and you’ll have to say it quick!”

Lisle smiled, leaning back against the side of the table and looking the baker over impudently.

“You don’t look as stupid as you sound,” he said.

“Is that so, you young high and mighty. I’ll find a way to take you down a peg. I’ll have none of your impertinence. You’ll give me civil words and you’ll give me a straight answer or I’ll give you something you’ll not relish, that I can tell you. Where is the De Soigné child?”

“I don’t know where she is. I haven’t any idea, but I’m glad she’s safe from you. Who knows, perhaps some one has come to her aid. That’s what I’m hoping.” As Lisle spoke, Humphrey Trail’s honest face came into his mind, and with it a certain confidence. Often during these past weeks he had thought of Humphrey, and gone over in his mind their last meeting. His pride had not let him take Humphrey’s advice and he had kept on with his visits to the bakery shop. He would have given a great deal to have seen Humphrey just at that minute. There was only one other person whom he would rather have seen, and that was Dian, the shepherd.

“There’s one thing I know,” cried the baker, “and that is you need a good taste of a whip. And, as sure as my name’s Charles Tortot, you’ll get it this very night. I’ll see to it that you shed some big tears before you’re many hours older, my fine fellow!” The baker was so angry that he stuttered as he spoke, and his temper was not improved by Lisle’s next remark.

“You couldn’t make me cry and you know it. I’m not afraid of you, and I think you know that, too,” he said. He was still leaning back against the table, his hands on the side of it. The baker glared at him but he had to admit to himself that his prisoner certainly did not look frightened, no matter how he may have felt. The baker looked at him for a moment, at his blue velvet suit, the freshly washed lace frills at his wrists, his white face and blue eyes, and the bright gold of his hair, tied back with its flare of ribbon. A silly whim of his wife’s and one that he should put a stop to. He stood there frowning at Lisle in the dusky twilight, and Lisle’s proud eyes frowned back at him.

Dian came in through the alley and climbed the rickety stairs to the room on the first landing. He had seen Raoul go through the gates an hour before, and knew that with him had gone the letters, one to Champar himself, and one for him to deliver to Grigge in Pigeon Valley. He was thinking of Lisle as he climbed the stairs, trying to plan out the best way to get a message to him.

He knocked on the door and said, “This is Dian,” and Vivi opened it for him, smiling a welcome.

“Dian, stay and talk with us. I have told Vivi everything I know and she has told me so many funny things about her life, but we’re tired now.” Rosanne came running across the room as she spoke, and, catching hold of the shepherd’s hand, drew him over by the window. He noted that she was pale, and for a moment his heart sank. Like Humphrey, he felt a responsibility for them all, but, unlike him, was able, after a moment, to banish his forebodings.

“You will have many adventures to talk over with your friends when you are an old, old woman, Mademoiselle,” he said to her smilingly.

“See what we have for supper! Humphrey brought us garlic and some fresh lettuce,” Rosanne went on, trying to be cheerful, and receiving a reward in Dian’s pleased smile.

They had put an overturned box by the one small window and had spread their supper on it. The lettuce and garlic reposed in a tin plate in the center of the improvised table, and a loaf of bread lay on a clean piece of paper at one side. Next to the plate of lettuce was a small glass filled with a few early violets. Dian came up to the table and stood looking down at it and at Rosanne. He touched one of the violets with his finger.

“A farmer woman gave them to me. She was sitting in her cart near the west gate. I told her that I had some young friends who would love them,” he said.

“Dian, they are like those at Pigeon Valley. Dian, think of it—Pigeon Valley. I was telling Vivi just now about the lilies on the south terrace at Les Vignes, clusters, crowds of them, white and gold. They’ll bloom in June, Dian!” Two tears rolled down Rosanne’s face, but she smiled through them. “I want to see Marie Josephine more than ever to-night. I——”

Dian put his hand gently on her shoulder.

“You are brave,” he said, and then turning toward Vivi he added: “Vivi is brave, too. She is helping us all the time.”

It was the best thing in the world he could have said, for Rosanne forgot herself at once and thought of Vivi.

“Yes, she is the best friend. She is so good to me. When she comes in she has always something for me, and when I am restless she dances for me, and then I dance for her. She has learned to do the minuet with me nicely, but she likes her own dances better.”

Vivi followed Dian to the door when he went out, and as he opened it Minuit came in, rubbing herself against him as she passed him.

Dian walked toward the city. The sky was bright with stars. He thought of the stars as they shone on the meadows of Les Vignes.

When he came to the corner leading into the rue Saint Honoré, he stood still. There was the way of the Champs Élysées, in the evening always the more quiet of the avenues. The tumbrils, which passed there all day, stopped at sundown when the guillotine finished its day’s work, and the crowds gathered along the rue Royale or about the Place de la Bastille, or down the length of the rue Saint Honoré.

Dian hesitated. He felt so tired of crowds, even of the thought of them, and, like Rosanne, he wanted Pigeon Valley. Still he hesitated. Years before, one wild, cold night, he had been a good distance from Les Vignes and had been coming home late. There had been two roads. One he knew well, for it led straight across the fields to his sheepfold door; the other was over rough stubble, hard and uneven from the early frost. One was easy going and he knew every inch of it, the other was uphill and a long way around. He took the difficult road, and halfway to Les Vignes he had come across one of his lambs, half dead with cold. It had strayed from the others and lay helpless and bleating on the stark hillside. He had lifted it and carried it home under his cloak, warmed and comforted. Something had told him to take the harder path, and the same trust had led him through it. He turned toward the rue Saint Honoré and as soon as he was halfway down the street he found himself one of a wild mob. All about him hoarse voices were screaming. He was carried along with the pressing crowd.

The baker was angry at Lisle, but he was curious, too. He had never seen any one like him. He had threatened to whip him and yet Lisle had still dared to defy him about the girl, and had spoken with an amazing impudence. Tortot went toward the door.

“We’ll see if I can’t rid you of some of that impertinence, my fine fellow,” he snarled.

While the baker had been speaking, there was a strange roaring sound somewhere in the distance, and when he finished it seemed to be very near. He paused uncertainly and his face showed white in the growing dusk. He ran over to the door and opened it, and as he did so there was a frightful crashing sound of breaking glass, mad shouting, then another crash, and the sound of a door being broken down.

Tortot stood as one dazed, but even in his fright and bewilderment he had presence of mind enough to put himself in front of the door as Lisle made a rush for it. The baker’s broad bulk completely barred the way and he was quick enough to prevent Lisle from ducking under his arm. There was the sound of tables and chairs being overthrown, more shouting, and then the bakery woman’s voice calling lustily:

“Charles, Charles, they are destroying us!”

It was only for a couple of minutes that Lisle and the baker struggled in the doorway. Then there was a burst of sound from the kitchens, the crash of pewter and iron cooking pans and tins being thrown down, voices harshly singing the “Ça Ira,” and the next instant a tall figure, with ragged red locks about his shoulders, swung himself up the stairway, knocked the baker down with one fierce thrust of his arm, and catching Lisle about the waist, threw him up over his shoulder.

He was down again like a flash, through the storeroom to the bakery shop where confusion reigned. Cakes were scattered broadcast, and broken china dishes lay in scattered heaps on the floor and counter. Dian with one quick, strong gesture had flung his cloak about Lisle as he ran with him down the stairway. Holding him close in his arms he ran on through the shop, out into the freedom of the streets!

Dian ran steadily and easily. He was used to long stretches of countryside, but he was not used to the tortuous, winding streets of Paris. He knew that some of those in the shop must have seen him, but as he had completely covered Lisle with his cloak he hoped that, had any one given him a thought, it would be only to surmise that he had run off with some especially choice piece of loot.

He turned in and out of several narrow, twisted streets, and at last stopped for a moment in the shadow of a doorway. He listened but could hear nothing but the usual roar of the city all about them. Then he put Lisle gently to the ground, throwing the cloak back so that he could see his face in the dim light.

“It’s Dian, Little Master,” he said.

Lisle, having been for several weeks confined in one small room with little fresh air, and having nothing to eat for the last two days, or at any rate, only enough to appease the bakery woman who had been concerned at his indisposition, was dazed and weak. He had been threatened one moment by the baker, and the next moment grabbed by some one, covered with a cloak, and run with at a tremendous pace, and now in a doorway in the heart of Paris, Dian was holding him, speaking in quiet, familiar tones.

Lisle put his head down in the hollow of his arm and stood very still for a moment.

“We’re going home, Little Master. We’ll be there soon,” Dian said again, and Lisle turned toward him as children and animals always did.

“Yes, home,” he said weakly, but when Dian offered to carry him, he shook his head.

“It’s better so, Little Master, for dressed as you are you will not be safe in the streets. It’s near now, and soon you’ll be safe and quiet.” Dian lifted him as he spoke and walked quickly with his long, easy strides until he came to the Saint Frère house. He went in through the cellar window, turned and drew Lisle in after him, then listened intently. There was no sound anywhere. Then he struck the flint and tinder which he kept on a shelf near the window and lit a lanthorn which he also kept on the shelf. It was the same green lanthorn which Marie Josephine had lit when she went down to the secret cellar.

Then Dian spoke to Lisle.

“Little Master, I am taking you where you will be safe. It is a place that Monsieur your grandfather loved, and it was built by the Lisle Saint Frère whom you have always loved to think about. Come with me, and mind your steps well, for we are going down a secret stairway into a hidden room.” As he spoke, Dian led Lisle across the cellar, and stooping at the seventh stone, pressed it and it opened.

Down, down into the gloom below them, the last Lisle Saint Frère followed Dian the shepherd, down to the cellar built by the first Lisle Saint Frère, deep in the heart of the earth!

Chapter XX

LISLE SEEKS ADVENTURE

Light from the green lanthorn and from two candles on the shelf flickered on the tapestry in the hidden cellar, bringing out unexpected gleams of rose and blue in its faded grey weaving. At one end of the long, strange room was a heap of rugs and velvet draperies and some blankets and there was a big tiger skin on the rough stone floor.

A table covered with a crimson brocaded cloth stood near the chest. Dian had found some boards in the upper cellar and had thrown them down the secret slide. With these he had made the table and he was now making a sort of bed. He was stooping over his work, his red locks falling about his shoulders, his chisel and wooden nails beside him on the floor. Lisle sat on the chest watching him, his hands clasped about his knees. It was five days since Dian had rescued him from the baker’s shop. At first he had not been able to take an interest in anything except the facts that the shepherd had told him that first day, when they were safe in the hidden cellar, that his mother was a prisoner in the house of his Great-aunt Hortense, that the old lady herself had died, and that Rosanne was safe with Humphrey Trail, who had rescued her the night that Lisle had been abducted.

Lisle had slept in a sort of stupor all the next day, rousing only to take the soup or milk which Dian fed him. He had muttered about a cake with spun sugar, and a mouse. Toward evening he had become himself again, eager to hear all that Dian had to tell him, and plying the shepherd with questions. Les Vignes—was all going well there? Marie Josephine, was she happy? Had they endured the winter without discomfort? Dian had answered all as best he could. He had told of Neville’s arrival in disguise and of the expected arrival of a messenger from the comtesse who never came. He told of the long winter evenings around Mother Barbette’s fire, and of how it had come to him, as he crossed the meadow one night, that he should go to Paris. He did not dwell too much on the danger they all were in, but Lisle seemed to grasp it.

“You see, I’ve known the danger all winter, Dian. I’ve known it was there since the Tuileries were taken. I’ve known it all along since then. We must not stay here in this hidden room. We must be up and out!” he had said impulsively.

That was the night after the rescue, and now the fifth day had come. Dian left him at intervals, bringing back food for them both. He shook his head when Lisle spoke of wanting to accompany him.

“You shouldn’t run all the danger yourself, Dian. You risked your life for me. Don’t you see I’m strong now and ready to help? It’s my place to help you, to save mother and get her and Rosanne out of Paris. That was what was so awful about being in the baker’s shop, not doing anything, not being able to help,” he said, but Dian only shook his head as he rose from his work.

“It’s lonely for you here and it’s dark and gloomy, too, but you are safe here and that is what counts the most. Never fear but your time will come to help. You’re helping now just by staying here. Your mother will be saved and she and Mademoiselle de Soigné will get safe out of Paris,” Dian answered.

“How do you know? How can you tell, Dian?” Lisle jumped up and came and stood in front of the shepherd, who looked up from his work.

“I can not tell you how I know, Little Master. I knew that I or the good Humphrey would find you,” and then Dian told again about discovering the note in the cake at the spinner’s supper. Lisle loved to hear the story.

“It was wonderful,” he said slowly as Dian finished speaking and went on with his work. Then Lisle hesitated. It was not easy for him to show emotion or sentiment of any kind. He put his hand on Dian’s shoulder as he bent over the boards with his saw. “There is no one like you, Dian,” he said.

The shepherd had waited for questions about the hidden cellar. It had amazed him that Lisle had not seemed to be surprised about it, but he was soon to know why. Lisle walked up and down for a time after he spoke to Dian. He rubbed his hand along the rough stone wall, lifted a corner of the tapestry curtain, and said:

“It is very old, isn’t it, Dian?”

“Very old, Little Master,” Dian replied.

“Did my grandfather know about it?” was Lisle’s next question.

“He knew and he told me,” came the shepherd’s answer.

“Why did he not tell me, too?” demanded Lisle, and as he spoke he came back to the chest and sat down, looking eagerly across at Dian, his light brows drawn together in the frown that with him generally meant trouble.

Dian stood up, straightening his great height. Then he walked slowly up and down the room, his hands locked in front of him, thinking deeply. When at last he answered Lisle he spoke slowly. “It is hard to tell you why, and I do not really know myself, except that it was always the Little Mademoiselle whom your grandfather thought the most about, and it was to her that he told the secret of the cellar. It is no longer a secret, and the time has come when it may shelter you all.”

Lisle was standing in front of him, his eyes flashing blue fire.

“He told Marie Josephine, that baby, told her instead of me who am head of my house, now that he has gone. What can you mean, Dian, when you say that grandfather told Marie Josephine?”

Dian was reaching for his cloak which hung on a nail at one side of the secret stairs as he answered quietly:

“The Comte Saint Frère thought that it was for the best. He said that the Little Mademoiselle was the one of you who thought the most, the one who cared for everyone and everything.” Dian turned and faced Lisle as he went on, speaking tenderly. “It was not indeed that you were not his dear beloved grandson. He had many hopes and dreams for you, only the Little Mademoiselle dreamed, too. She was different.”

As he spoke, Dian climbed the first step of the stairs. “I’ll be gone but a short time and we’ll have a good talk about it all when I come back,” he said, and then he climbed up the stairs, opened the secret panel, and, after sliding it back in place, went out through the cellar into the soft spring dusk. He was sad at heart, for he knew that Lisle was wounded in his pride, and that he was angry. It would not make things easier to have him so. He knew that it would be as well to leave him alone for a time, and he felt that it was the hour for him to pay a visit to Vivi and Rosanne. More and more the conviction grew upon him that Rosanne’s situation was now becoming perilous, and that he must soon, at all costs, see that she was safely hidden in the secret cellar, until such time as he could effect an escape for the comtesse.

He had seen Humphrey and had told him of Lisle’s escape and of his being safe in the hidden cellar. He knew that he had done well in telling Humphrey of the cellar, and one of the things he had decided to do next was to show it to him and to tell him of the secret panel and how to open it. Humphrey did not seem to realize his own danger, but Dian felt that it was there. Humphrey was an alien enemy of the Republic. His safety so far had lain largely in the fact of his being so typically a farmer.

Surveillance was growing daily more strict. At any time both Humphrey and Rosanne might be discovered. Dian was thinking of all this as he walked through the crowded, unruly city, amid the sound of hammers on anvils and the rumble of tumbrils carrying poor victims to the guillotine.

As he walked, his cloak thrown across his shoulders, his long even strides taking him over the ground in good time, he was thinking deeply, but he was in no way discouraged. He was right when he said to Lisle that he had deep faith in the safety of them all, but it was something that he could not put into words, something deep within him which spoke to him of good, and which gave him confidence. He turned to it as simply as a child, and it had never failed him. He had thought a great deal about Vivi while he had been in the hidden cellar the last few days. He knew that there was very much that he could do for her, poor little ignorant child, so kind of thought and action, so ready to do as they asked her, keeping their secret for them. There was a life of sunshine for Vivi, away from the dirty alley and the rough madness of Paris, of that Dian was sure, and for that he would work.

He walked to the west gate and stood in the dusk, exchanging greetings with the soldiers on guard and with various vendors of hot soup, eau sucré, and coffee. Then he went on toward the Saint Antoine district, finding himself at last in the dingy alley where lived three people in whom he was deeply interested and whom he loved.

Rosanne overwhelmed him with questions. Her joy in the thought of Lisle’s safety made her almost like the happy girl who used to ride up and down the long driveway at Les Vignes.

“If only you could stay and tell us all about the hidden cellar!” she said as Dian came in bringing something almost like sunshine with him.

Humphrey Trail was as interested as Rosanne. His honest face glowed with pleasure when Dian said:

“The Little Master talked and talked of you, Humphrey. As soon as he knew about his mother and Mademoiselle he began to talk of you. 'Humphrey Trail is my friend. He saved Rosanne and he gave me good counsel which I was too proud to take. Dian, I want to show that I am his friend, too,’ he said.”

Dian took a piece of paper from his pocket and read what was written on it.

It was a copy of the note to Grigge which Raoul had taken through the gates. It read:

“When this reaches you, aid Champar to do all that may be needful for the family at Les Vignes. Go with Champar in the coach to Calais, and give this note which is inclosed to one Anastasius Grubb, who is skipper of a fishing smack called the Sandlass. He is thick set, and has a black beard, and has a scar over his left eye. Deliver the note into his hands and into no other’s. I trust you. I know that you will be guided. Consult Champar the coach driver in case of danger. Dian.”

What would those who trusted him say if they knew that he had sent this important note to the miserable boy who lived in a hovel at the gates of Les Vignes? Dian, in his wisdom, knew that he had done well. He had spent many a night in Pigeon Valley, when his eyes were blurred with weariness, teaching Grigge to read and write. He had kept up the boy’s courage when he had been in despair, and had given him a hold on life. He had strengthened his love for young and helpless animals. He trusted him now to do this one great service.

“The little Vivi is late. It is best that I go and find her,” Dian said, and as he spoke, he tore up the copy of the letter, and threw it into the fire. Then he went out, leaving Humphrey and Rosanne to their simple supper of bread and greens. Dian wanted a word alone with Vivi.

He went to the West Barricade and stood watching the carts go through. He knew several of the soldiers who stood about and he nodded to Georges Fardou, who was on guard at the gate, and with whom he often had a word. He was about to turn away when two figures came flying through the gates, a girl and a boy! They stood still for a second, as though dazed. The next instant they threw themselves upon Dian.

Fardou gave a gruff laugh, exclaiming, “Look here, young Vivi. There will be no more of this going in and out of the gates. You and your young tramp of a friend can keep inside. You’d never have gotten through to-day if I’d been on guard.”

Dian never knew how he passed the next few minutes. His Little Mademoiselle, the wildest, dirtiest little vagabond imaginable, was hugging him, whispering through soft sobs, “Dian, Dian, Dian.” Jean Barbette, a dusty, smutty-nosed boy, if ever there was one, held tight to his hand, fairly jumping for joy. Dian felt his heart give a great leap when he heard the guard call out “Vivi.” He himself had thought at first that Marie Josephine was Vivi. There was safety in this, beyond words to measure!

He took them each by the hand, saying over his shoulder to Fardou, “I’ll see that they stay where they belong!”

He walked with them quickly down a side street toward the alley.

Lisle had sat still on the chest for some time after Dian left him. He looked at the quiet dusk of the old place, at the flicker of light from the green lanthorn, at the weird figures on the tapestry. He was angry, for his pride had been hurt, his sorest point. Grandfather had told Marie Josephine about the cellar instead of him, had told a mere child who could know little or nothing of what it meant.

He would show them that he was no child to be kept in hiding! Dian had said that it was necessary that he stay in the cellar for the present, and had taken it for granted that he would do so, but he had not given Dian his word that he would stay. As he climbed up the secret stairs he was glad that this was so. He had watched Dian open the panel and when he reached the top of the stairs he did as the shepherd had done, and to his joy the panel slipped out easily. What would Marie Josephine say if she could see him now!

He slipped the panel back in place, and stood for a moment in the dim cellar, the musty scent of apples and onions all about him. He thought of the night when he had come down for wood, leaving Rosanne singing in the salon, and of all that he had been through since then. He turned back toward the secret panel, hesitated, then ran quickly up the dark stairway to the floor above.

He was in his own house! He was master of that house! It had belonged to his forefathers and now it was his own, but as he went into the great, silent hall, he knew that he was not quite as he had been that night of the blizzard when he had toasted nuts with Rosanne. He had known grave danger and he had met with kindness. He had a feeling of gratitude for the bakery woman. He was sorry that all the pride and delight she had in her cakes had ended in the shattering of her shop. He felt an intense relief and thankfulness that Rosanne was not in danger and he wanted to get her safely out of Paris. Above all, he wanted to set his mother free. That was one of his plans, to go to Great-aunt Hortense’s house in some disguise. He was full of plans and longing for action, but out of all that he had learned these last weeks, he had not lost his pride. He had not been content to wait for Dian’s own good time. He had chosen a time himself.

As he stood there in the dark hall, he thought he saw something move, and then decided that it was only the swaying of the velvet curtain leading into the salon. He put one foot on the stairs leading to the floor above and then paused, listening. He heard footsteps; they came from the direction of the cellars. He was not mistaken. It must be Dian who had come back through the cellar window.

The hot blood mounted to Lisle’s face. Dian had found that he was gone and was coming to look for him. He turned and looked back, and at that moment saw the tall figure of the shepherd in the half light. He was just about to speak to him when some one crouching by the velvet curtain jumped forward, and pointed a gun at Dian’s head.

Lisle ran out of the shadow and threw himself in front of the shepherd, both arms outstretched. The gun fell to the floor with a crash and its owner began to sob. It was Henri!

Chapter XXI

IN THE HIDDEN CELLAR

The three of them stood there in the great, dark entrance hall, Henri trying to speak through his sobs.

“You, Monsieur Lisle! You are safe. I can not believe my eyes. I am glad, glad! You can not know—I was tempted. I was weak. They talked me over, Tortot and his friend, and they promised me a big reward, but I have known nothing but misery. Monsieur Lisle, you must believe me. I have known only horror since I helped them plan to take you away, and since the imprisonment of Madame, your mother, at the home of your aunt.” Henri clasped his hands in his earnestness. “I am in despair. I have known bad hours in this house. They have turned against me, Tortot and the others. They say that I am working against them. I thought just now that one of them had come to kill me. I promise now to do all I can to help you and yours.”

Lisle’s face showed no signs of softening as he stood there facing Henri. He was full of excitement. He had come from the hidden cellar, and had found adventure before he reached the second story. He had no pity for Henri.

“You saw to it that my mother was made a prisoner, and yet you dare to whine before me,” he exclaimed.

Dian had stood silent during the words between Henri and Lisle. He saw what Lisle did not see, that Henri’s repentance was real, and that, in spite of his weakness and cowardice, Henri wanted now, most earnestly, to atone! It was a blessed thing for them all, that Dian knew this to be true. Henri was one of the people and he knew Paris well. Henri turned to Dian.

“Tell the young master that it is so. Do not be mad enough to refuse my aid. I have joined up with a battalion and am leaving the city shortly. I did not mean them any real harm, only I was afraid——”

“You need not give your cowardice as an excuse. It is you and those like you who are making this revolution a thing for fiends. It is you and your kind who are taking all the beauty from the thought of brotherhood. The Saint Frères have not shown you any kindness, you will say, and that may be true; but they trusted you, a woman and two children, alone and unprotected. They never did anything to deserve such rank disloyalty.” Dian spoke very sternly and turned in the next breath and addressed himself to Lisle. “You, too, are untrustworthy and disloyal,” he said, and looked straight into Lisle’s eyes. Lisle’s eyes answered his, a world of grieved astonishment in their depths.

Dian turned again to Henri.

“Prove your words by some deed that will show you to be less a coward. I trust you now. I am taking this boy where he will be kept in safety. You, in the meantime, can try to find some way to undo your evil work. I can come and go by way of the broken window in the cellar. You know it well. I can receive a message from you if you have anything of import to tell me.”

Henri came nearer to Dian as he spoke, looking at him in a way he had never looked at any human being before. It was as though he were seeing himself for the first time. He put out both his hands toward Dian.

“You trust me?” he faltered.

Dian nodded. Then he turned and drew Lisle close to him. He knew that he had spoken harshly. He had meant to do so.

“He saved your life, for I might have killed you!” Henri said to Dian and the shepherd answered:

“He is like that first Lisle Saint Frère, his long-ago ancestor.”

Dian turned away after he had said these words. Then looking back at Henri, he went on, “Leave any message for me, here in this hall, under the carpet by the stairs.” He went on down the hall, Lisle beside him. When they reached the cellar stairs he looked back. There was no sign or sound of any one. Henri was not following, not spying.

When they reached the first cellar, they stood for a moment by the jam shelf where the swinging lanthorn cast its light upon them. Lisle caught hold of Dian’s arm and looked up at him.

“You said I was like the first Lisle Saint Frère. You said it after I had disobeyed you. I’m sorry that I left the cellar when you trusted me to stay,” he said.

Dian held him at arm’s length, smiling the smile that seemed to transfigure him, bringing a radiance to his face.

“Yes, you did wrong. We all do. It is true that you are like the first Lisle. Listen, my child, there are great things for you to know. Awake to them! Think of the protection that has been with you and yours. You will see.” As he spoke, Dian went to the panel, and kneeling, opened it. It slid back and they descended backward into the depths.

As Lisle reached the last step, his first impression was of light, and when he turned around, a blaze of candle radiance greeted him. He put his hand to his forehead, leaning back for a moment against the rough wall.

The lighted cellar seemed unreal and so did the two figures who stood by the old, carved chest. One of the figures, with an odd cry that was half a laugh, half a sob, sprang forward and caught him about the neck. She was a wild-looking, dark child with rough black locks which flapped against his face as she clung to him, but in spite of her rags and the strangeness of her appearance, he knew, when she called his name, that it was Marie Josephine!

He was bewildered and it was not to be wondered at. After weeks of inaction in the bakery shop, the sudden wild rescue, the hidden cellar, leaving it, the episode with Henri in the hall, and now, wonder of wonders his sister, Marie Josephine! He felt her arms clinging to him and looking over her shoulder he saw—could he believe his senses?—little Jean Barbette, covered with dust and smiling out of his black eyes!

“It is Jean!” he gasped.

Jean was so delighted at Lisle’s surprise, that he began to hop about on one foot. “Yes, I came! I came all the way from Pigeon Valley to Paris! I’m going to tell Petite Mère all about it!” Jean’s eyes seemed fairly to blaze in his excitement.

“Let us go over to the chest and sit down!” said Lisle, who was trying not to show his emotion and his unbounded surprise, but he failed in this, for they could all see that he was fairly dazed. He sat down on the chest with Marie Josephine beside him, and in spite of her dust and grime, he kept his arm close about her. Then he beckoned to Jean. “Come and sit on the other side, won’t you, Jean?” he said.

Dian had gone over to the heap of rugs, and coming back with a soft brown one, put it on the floor in front of the chest. Jean sat down on it with his legs crosswise.

“You sit down between us on the chest, Dian,” suggested Marie Josephine excitedly. “We can talk and talk but I don’t know where to begin. There are so many things I want to tell and to hear about!”

It was true. It was all so strange and unreal, the journey, their coming through the gates meeting Dian, then the alley, an odd dark room, a funny fat man, whose name was Humphrey Trail and who was Lisle’s friend, and with him Rosanne! Then the walk through the noisy streets with Dian to her own home, to the secret cellar!

Marie Josephine had to be the one to talk first. She talked so fast and said so much that her words fairly tumbled over themselves, but her hearers were so interested that they did not miss one of them! Jean sat listening as eagerly as any one, nodding his head vigorously every now and then, and blushing at Marie Josephine’s praise of him. They drank in all she had to tell them of that spring night less than a week ago when she had dressed herself in the disguise which she had been all winter in procuring, and which she told them would furnish a story all of itself. She told of the pitiful whine of Flambeau when she had come away and left him, of the last glimpse of Mother Barbette’s cottage, and then of her words to Grigge. She told of the run through the sweet, night air of their dear Pigeon Valley, and finally of finding Jean just behind her!

When she reached this stage in her narrative she stopped for sheer lack of breath and Dian stood up, saying:

“You both need food, Little Mademoiselle. I shall prepare it.”

At these words of Dian’s Jean cried, “Bravo!”

Marie Josephine gave a happy little laugh. “Yes, we do, and I’ll stop talking altogether for a few minutes.” She turned toward her brother as she spoke. He was sitting with his head thrown back against the grey stone wall, his hands at his sides. He wore one of the dark velvet suits which brought back memories of the schoolroom. Dian had found it upstairs and had brought it down to him. Marie Josephine had only been told that Lisle was safe in the hidden cellar. She knew nothing of the baker shop. As she turned to look at him, he smiled back at her, the first time since he had smiled at the bakery woman over the cake. He was so astounded at what she had done, that he could scarcely believe it was not all a dream. What was it Dian had said there by the panel, that wonderful smile on his face?—“think of the protection that has been with you.” Marie Josephine and Jean had come safely through to the heart of Paris. His sister was sitting there beside him in a disguise which she had thought of and carried out herself. She had known high adventure, and she told it all simply as an interesting story, without a trace of vainglory.

“Why did you come, Marie Josephine? Was it because of the hidden cellar?” Lisle asked her, and Dian, as he bent over his cooking in a far corner of the room, listened for her reply. He had built a small fire in a rough hollow of the floor and he was brewing chocolate. The fire made some smoke but not enough to cause discomfort, drifting off into the dim recesses of the alcoves beyond.

“I came because of knowing about it, partly because of that and partly because grandfather had told me that I was to tell about it if it were to save a life. I thought and thought about it all winter. It seemed as though the spring would never come. I knew no one would dream of letting me come, of course, and I didn’t tell any one but Jean about what I was going to do. If you want me to I’ll go right on telling some more while we have the chocolate. There is so much to tell!”

Dian took off the red, brocaded cloth and brought out a white one from a shelf in a sort of small cavern in the wall. He spread it on the table. Marie Josephine jumped up, breaking off with, “I’ll set the table. I can talk while I’m doing it. Bring the silver, and the horn drinking cups, Jean. They’re there on the shelf. You see,” she looked across and smiled at Jean as she spoke, “I—I’ve been here in the hidden cellar before!”

Lisle was still sitting with his head thrown back against the stone wall, and as Marie Josephine looked over at him, a drinking cup in one hand and a silver spoon in the other, she noticed suddenly that his face was very white there in the candlelight and that there was something different about it. It was always like him to keep things to himself. She came across to him slowly.

“You have been always in my thoughts, and that is why I came—because of maman and of you. She is safe at Great-aunt Hortense’s house and Dian will take care of us, but there is something that makes you different. What is it?”

Dian brought a loaf of bread on a blue plate and put it on the table. He had already placed a dish of cheese by the jug of chocolate. Then lifting the table, he brought it up close to the chest.

“Come and eat and drink. That is the best for now. There is much to tell on each side, for you are not the only one who has had adventures, Little Mademoiselle,” he said.

“Yes, yes, I know; Rosanne. I am thinking all the time about it, how Humphrey Trail carried her through the snowstorm to that funny dark alley room.” She looked across uncertainly at Lisle. “There is something I do not know, something you have not told me,” she said slowly.

Lisle stood up and caught her about the waist.

“Come,” he said, “you are the worst little beggar as to looks I’ve ever beheld, isn’t she, Dian? But we’d rather have her just as she is than the greatest beauty in Paris as it was in the good old days!” He bowed before her as he spoke and, to his surprise, she started the first steps of the minuet. How she blessed those hours after dinner, practicing with Bertran! She hummed the melody as she danced and she forgot everything, even the hot chocolate for the moment. It was Lisle, with his same old half-laughing, half-serious way. She was dancing with him in the secret cellar and, of all the strange happenings of the past week, this seemed the strangest and in all ways the most wonderful.

“Sometime I’ll tell you about a mouse,” he said as they went through the graceful measures.

“A mouse! What do you mean?” she questioned merrily, smiling over her shoulder at Dian and Jean.

“And a cake!” he went on.

“A cake! What do you mean?” she exclaimed again.

“Come, please, and have the very nice chocolate,” pleaded Jean, and they both came running up to the table.

It was a strange supper there in the deep dim cavern in the heart of the earth. Lisle and Jean brought the bed up to the table, and they sat down on it, opposite Dian and Marie Josephine. The hot chocolate in the old horn drinking cups was delicious, and it seemed to the two wayfarers that they had never tasted anything so good as the bread and cheese.

“Tell me what you mean by a mouse and a cake, Lisle,” Marie Josephine demanded, but her brother shook his head.

“I’m too hungry just now, and I want to know what happened when you found that Jean had followed you. That’s where you left off in your story,” he said.

Dian had told Marie Josephine that the good Yorkshire farmer had saved Rosanne from men who had tried to abduct her. He had told her at once that Lisle was safe in the hidden cellar and that her mother was in the house of Great-aunt Hortense, but more than this she did not know. She had taken for granted, in her fatigue and excitement, that her mother was quite safe, being in the house of her great-aunt, and as Lisle sat before her alive and well she could not but see that it was all right with him.

“When I knew that Jean had really come, had followed me all the way, I was so glad! I can’t tell you how I felt, but it was like flying. We ran on and on through the woods, and we did not seem to be tired at all. We would rest now and then, and once I told a story, but I didn’t dare to stay still for very long, for fear Jean would fall asleep.”

Jean blushed at this, and Marie Josephine added hastily:

“It was hard for me to keep awake, too, for everything was asleep, even the owls, I think. It was wonderful, wasn’t it, Jean, there in the still night? I’d always wanted to be out in the woods in the middle of the night, not just evening. When early morning came we were at the edge of the forest, and we went right up to the old green mill-inn!” Marie Josephine leaned forward eagerly as she went on, one hand stretched across the table: “The minute I saw the dark woman, I recognized her as the one who waited on us at lunch last summer, but of course I wasn’t a bit frightened because she thought we were just little tramp children. She was just going to tell us to be off when—what do you think?” She paused impressively.

“What!” exclaimed Lisle.

He was listening eagerly, a bit of color in his cheeks. Dian watched him, wondering if the first Lisle Saint Frère had been like him. Dian, too, was listening with all his heart to everything that Marie Josephine was saying.

“Why, all of a sudden, who should appear at the edge of the forest and come running to us but Flambeau!”

They all laughed at this statement, but their laughter sounded so odd, echoing through the long, low hollows and arches of the ancient place that they stopped almost as soon as they began, and Marie Josephine went on with her story. She told how the woman suddenly became very friendly and ushered them inside, how she became suspicious of the woman, and how Jean tried the door and found it bolted.

“I couldn’t be really sure it was the same woman I’d seen under our oak at Les Vignes, but I was almost sure, and I knew when we found that we were locked in.” They listened breathlessly while she told of the eave’s trough and their escape.

“You talk for a while, Jean. Tell them the rest. Jean was so splendid. It was all his idea about the trough and the tree.” Marie Josephine sat back and rubbed her eyes, which smarted a little from the smoke of the fast-dying fire.

Dian sat with his hands on his knees, his face almost stern in its earnestness. The woman from the green mill had been spying. He had always felt that it was a strange place, and so had Neville, though they had had no real reason to suspect it. He hoped with all his heart that the adventure of the green mill had been only an episode in the children’s strange journey, and that there would not be anything further to fear from that direction.

Jean told of the happy meeting with the man who drove the coach.

“There isn’t much to tell about it, for we went right to sleep and slept all day. The driver was a very nice man, and when I woke up I went and sat on the box with him, and we talked about all that’s going on. He told me his brother was fighting with the army of the Revolution. He was a kind man even if he was cross-eyed.”

“What was his name?” It was Dian who spoke.

Jean shook his head, and so did Marie Josephine.

“I ought to remember but I don’t. A farm boy came up to the cart and gave him a letter to deliver on his way back, just as we were getting out of the cart. The boy spoke his name but I’ve forgotten it,” answered Jean.

A cross-eyed coach driver on the Calais road, a farm boy with a note for him to deliver on his way back. Dian bowed his head over his hands and sat quietly. As Jean went on Dian knew what he had so longed to know, that the note for Grigge had fallen safely into the hands of Champar the coach driver, who was his friend.

“He asked him if he went near Pigeon Valley, and the driver said, 'Yes, sometimes in good weather,’ and that he was going that way on his route back,” Jean said, thus giving Dian the knowledge he so longed to possess.

“Do go on and tell how we walked all night because we had slept all day,” put in Marie Josephine impatiently.

“You tell, Little Mademoiselle,” said Jean.

“It was the best time of all, I think, for though we were thrilled the first night we were—well, not frightened, but sort of not used to it all. We’d had a splendid rest all day and we were so excited. It was such a warm night, and the wild lavender was so sweet that the whole wood smelt of it. It was splendid out on the highroad, too, and we never met anything to frighten us. We had the food we’d both brought, and we ate it at dawn under a big flowering hawthorn tree. We kept on walking, and we didn’t know how tired we were, until all of a sudden we couldn’t go another step. We went to sleep in a sort of summer house in the garden of an empty house. No one saw us, and in the afternoon we started on.” Marie Josephine hesitated, and then said honestly:

“We were all tired out by that time and I was very cross.”

“It was my fault because I was homesick,” put in Jean.

“It wasn’t your fault any more than mine, for we were both homesick and Flambeau was a great worry.”

“Where is Flambeau?” asked Lisle.

“We’ve left him with some people in a farmhouse. We knew we simply couldn’t come through the gates with him,” answered his sister.

“The Little Mademoiselle was very good to me when I was homesick on the third day. It was while the sun was going down, and we were sitting on a mound near a river where we could see it. It made me think of how we used to watch it sinking behind the woods when we used to come across the meadow with Dian and the sheep, and—and—I cried.” Poor Jean blushed as he admitted the last.

“So did I almost. There were tears in my eyes, and some you didn’t see slid right down my cheeks, Jean. It was glorious, sitting there by the river, watching the sun say good-by to it, making it all gold and pink. I told Jean about the 'Song of Roland’ and we pretended to listen for his horn echoing down from the hills, just the way it must have sounded to the soldiers long ago when Roland blew the last blast as he was dying in the hills. The next day we had a long ride in a farmer’s cart. He was a fierce man with bristling moustaches even though he was a farmer. He said he hoped the guillotine would put an end to every aristo in the country. That ride helped a good deal, and when the farmer asked if we were hungry and we said we were, he gave us some young radishes and a half loaf of bread.” Marie Josephine stopped for a moment to draw a long breath, and then said regretfully: “We didn’t really have any exciting adventure except the one of the old green mill. We just trudged along and everyone took us for poor tramp children, though they all stared and asked questions about Flambeau. That was one reason why we left him with some nice children who lived in a house near Melon. They promised to take good care of him until we came for him, and to keep him locked up until we were out of sight so he could not follow us. I knew that Flambeau would make it much harder for us when we came to Paris, he looks so——”

“Such an aristo,” suggested Lisle.

They all laughed.

“That’s it,” assented his sister. “He’s such an aristo.”

Dian stood up suddenly, and going over to the stairs, listened. Then he started back a little, putting his hand out warningly toward the children. The next instant a breathless voice came down to them:

“Tha said well when tha said the sliding was not large; an’ I live to reach the cellar I shall never come back again!”

They all ran eagerly to the foot of the stairs. There, coming down backward, was Humphrey Trail and in front of him, moving cautiously, her hand on his shoulders, was Rosanne. Dian was up the stairs and had shut the panel in a second. Then he waited a few minutes, listening. When he returned Humphrey was surrounded by the children. Jean sat on his knee, Marie Josephine stood on one side, Rosanne next her, the two friends holding hands, and in front of him stood Lisle. Lisle was speaking and Marie Josephine was more surprised at his words than at the arrival of the farmer and Rosanne.

“Humphrey Trail, I am glad to see you. Humphrey Trail, you were right and I was wrong. I did not take your warning. I kept on going to the baker’s shop until it became my prison. I brought Rosanne into awful danger and you rescued her. Humphrey, I—” He looked about the dim, bare place, weird in the uncertain light of the fast melting candles. “You are welcome here,” he ended simply.

Marie Josephine never knew, she said afterward, whether she was really awake, it all seemed so fantastic, the half-dark cellar, all of them there together, Lisle talking about a prison in a bakery shop, and a note in a cake which Dian found at a spinner’s supper. She heard over again of Humphrey’s wrapping Rosanne in the blue velvet mantle, of his vain search for Lisle, of his meeting at the gates with Dian, of Vivi.

They talked on, as Dian went through the dim, rocky alcoves beyond, making beds out of rugs and blankets and lighting candles, the striking of the flint and tinder making an odd sound in the stillness.

Vivi had come in late that evening and had brought disquieting news. This Humphrey told Dian in an aside. She had spent a good part of the day roaming about, and had gone to the house of the Marquise du Ganne. With other curious children of the street, she had looked through the broken door at the comtesse. She had heard that there were other prisoners hidden in the house and that in the course of a few days they were to be taken to the prison of La Force. She had heard, too, among the crowd that there was to be a general search for missing aristocrats through the Saint Antoine district. She had come in tired and excited, after Humphrey had searched for her in vain and had returned to the alley, and she had told him all she knew. What he had not understood, Rosanne had explained in English. They had thought it best that Vivi should not know who they were, as much for her own safety as for theirs; so, when they left, Humphrey put a mound of coins on the table and said to her: “Th’art faithful. We ha’ trust in tha. I shall come back,” but he did not tell her where they were all going.

Rosanne had put her arms around her friend and cried, and when Humphrey carried her out of the door, she had said earnestly:

“I, too, shall see you again. We are friends, Vivi.”

It was a grave risk that Humphrey ran, for there was no friendly snowstorm to cover their getting away, but the alley had been deserted and he had concealed Rosanne completely with his cloak.

“Dian, I wish we had brought Vivi with us. I think all the time of Vivi,” Rosanne said as he came up to her, a pillow for her bed and Marie Josephine’s in his hands.

The shepherd smiled.

“You need not be afraid for the little Vivi, Mademoiselle. She is safe in the only home she has ever known, and there are bright days ahead for her. She is better off now than she knows. Have no thought for her but one of love.” He paused a moment. “The good God who sent us Vivi loves her, Mademoiselle,” he said.

Marie Josephine was half asleep, her funny, tangled shock of hair on Rosanne’s shoulder, but her eyes, when she looked up at Dian, were bright with excitement.

“I may go to maman to-morrow, promise me, Dian. I told you in the alley room that I would be patient about not seeing her to-night, but to-morrow early I must go straight to her and to Great-aunt Hortense. It will be quite safe for me in the streets in my disguise.” She caught his arm and looked up at him as she spoke.

Dian looked down at Marie Josephine and said to her simply:

“There is real work for you to do to-morrow. You have come just in time, and you have not come in vain, Little Mademoiselle. I hope that you will see your mother to-morrow.”

Chapter XXII

CHAMPAR TO THE RESCUE

Grigge unfastened the sheepfold gate and then turned and faced Neville, who stood beside him.

“You’d better stop worrying about those who are away, and keep your worry for those at home,” he said.

“What do you mean by that, Grigge? There’s no danger to Les Vignes. The trouble is all the other way,” Neville answered, leaning back against the grey paling. He was tired out and covered with mud. He had just returned from a vain attempt to find the runaways, and he was not eager to face either the governess or Mother Barbette.

“Things happen quickly these days. You can’t tell what may happen next. Your fine friends up at the house are none too safe. There were five fires not so very far from here only last week. One of the houses burned was the home of a friend of the old man’s.” By “the old man,” Grigge meant Marie Josephine’s grandfather.

Neville’s face was white in the dancing sunshine. He was not able to deny the truth of what Grigge said, and he was thinking of the two lost children. He did not know what to do.

“Dian should never have gone away. It would be better, a thousand times better, to have Dian with us,” he said.

Grigge nodded. Here was one point on which he thoroughly agreed with Neville.

“That’s true! He shouldn’t have wasted his time looking out for those that don’t deserve it. He’s worth all of them put together!” he said. Then he suddenly thought of the fight he had had with Jean, and of how the Little Mademoiselle had cried out, “What would Dian say!” As he stood there kicking his heels against the wooden gate, Grigge knew that he cared more about what Dian would say than about anything else in the world, for Dian had helped him to keep his hold on life, and to fight despair. He had taught him to love the sun and the stars, the flowers and the young animals. It was easier to love these than to love people.

“I rode like the wind and may have passed them by. I dared not ask questions. I had a cup of coffee at that old green mill-inn and I don’t like it. The woman who waited on me asked questions. I put her off, you can be sure of that. She knows about what is going on here. She knows the Du Mondes are here, and that old Martin and I are the only men left to guard the place. When I rode away she called after me: 'You must be lonely out Pigeon Valley way, you and old Martin. You’ve a pretty flock to look out for!’” Neville stopped short and looked keenly at Grigge, who returned the look doggedly. “If I thought you’d done anything tricky, you young good-for-nothing!” he exclaimed, eyeing Grigge suspiciously. Grigge said nothing, though he stuck his tongue out at him impudently.

Neville turned away. He was angry at himself for having told Grigge, whom he heartily disliked, anything about his worries. The boy’s voice followed him: “You’d better keep your wits here at home. Things are happening fast these days. One day here, and the next gone.”

When Neville left him, Grigge slouched back against the gate, his hands in the pockets of his brown shepherd’s smock. He looked less badly nourished than in the wintertime. His gaunt face was faintly brown from long days in the spring meadows with his flock. There was little that he really knew about what was going on in the country, but he did know that there was turmoil in the towns nearest them and that Les Vignes was in danger. Neville was like the aristocrats, for he did not see danger until it was fairly upon him. Grigge gleaned every bit of information that he could from passing peddlers, from farm men who came by, from everyone who had anything to tell. There was no danger for himself or his family, the rude huts along the back road would be as safe as could be, but the great house on the terrace was in grave peril, and those who lived in it would not believe it!

Grigge turned on his heel and went out toward the highroad. As he reached the opening in the hedge, he looked through and fairly gasped in astonishment. The coach for Calais stood near the gates! Grigge ducked through the hedge and came up to it. The driver saw him and jumped down from his high seat. The two stood facing each other, the cross-eyed driver and Grigge. There was no one else around.

“I want to see a boy named Grigge Barbette on urgent business!” said the coach driver at last.

“I’m Grigge Barbette!” exclaimed Grigge, and he was so excited that he caught hold of the man’s arm. “What do you mean? Have you a message for me?” he asked.

The coach driver eyed him sharply.

“How am I to know that you really are Grigge Barbette?” he said.

Grigge nodded toward the row of huts in the distance.

“Any one there will tell you,” he answered.

The man looked at him a moment longer. Then he put his hand in an inside pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper sealed with a red seal.

“This is for you,” said Champar. “There’s no one I’d take all this fuss for but Dian the shepherd. He knows, and I know, and the Lord above knows I’d not be here on earth to-day but for him!”

Grigge tore open the note and read it. His long face turned ashy white as he read. When he finished he looked up in a sort of daze at the coach driver, who said:

“I’m here and I’ll do what’s best. I wonder if they know up there at the house that it may not be standing to-morrow night! I don’t care much whether it is or not myself, or wouldn’t if Dian didn’t set such store by it. Well, I’ll do what I can. That’s what he wrote in the note. 'Do what you can. Get the family at Les Vignes to some hiding place near Calais if there is danger.’”

Champar looked at Grigge, who returned his look almost unseeingly.

“You mean there really is danger here?”

The driver laughed gruffly as he replied:

“Sans-culottes from Saulieu are out on the warpath. They’ve been joined by former olive mill workers down that way. They burned down the château of the Comte d’Veraux night before last. They have this place in mind. The people do not love Les Vignes. Your own cousins are with the rabble!”

Grigge stood with the note in his hand, looking up at Champar.

“He says to consult with you in case of danger,” he gasped. It was more than for a moment he could sense or understand. Here was word from Dian. He was trusted to fulfill a mission—trusted! Dian had chosen him. He had written, “I trust you!” Whatever he did he would do like Champar, for Dian’s sake!

Why should he save the inhabitants at Les Vignes? There was nothing that they had ever done for him. Days of vengeance were at hand! He stood still in the roadway, the letter clasped tight in his hand.

“You understand that if they are to get away it must be at once. I can take them some of the way at no great risk to myself. I will take them to a barn near Calais. The shepherd, in his note to me, says they must go there. He trusted these letters to that farmer boy, Raoul. Well, the shepherd is not afraid to trust! Come, we must go up to the house. A coach driver has the chance to learn many things, and I know the rabble have shouted the name Saint Frère and Les Vignes. I know they will come!” As he spoke, the coach driver took Grigge’s arm.

Grigge never, as long as he lived, forgot those few minutes there in the dusky twilight. He often lived them over in the after years. He was fighting with himself. At last he said, “I must go, too, for I have a mission to look after in Calais. Come, we will go to them.”

The coach driver talked very fast as they went through the woods. They must have some sort of a disguise, all of them. They could wear the servants’ clothes, and have, at least, the look of decent farmer people. They must be made to understand that they must come with them in order to save their lives, and that they must do as they are told. This pleased Grigge very much! At least he would show them that they were entirely at the mercy of himself and the driver! They would do as they were told!

They found everyone out on the terrace, and when Grigge and the driver approached, Bertran and Denise ran to meet them.

“Tell us the news!” they cried.

Cécile and Hortense, each with an arm about the governess, came slowly down the terrace steps. Their eyes were red with crying. It was nearly a week since the children had gone, and there had been no word of them.

The coach driver did not bow, for he was a good republican at heart, and in those days of the revolution bowing had gone out of fashion. He was doing this for the sake of a friend who had done much for him, and he wanted them to understand this.

“Citizeness, you and your charges are in grave danger. I hope you deserve the good chance for your life which I am giving you. I have a note from Dian, the shepherd, who is in Paris——”

Madame Le Pont gave an exclamation, and Denise ran up to the driver and caught his hand.

“Tell me, did he speak of maman and Lisle, and have you heard news of my little sister?” she cried. Her hair fell in disorder about her tear-stained face and her lips trembled.

The driver shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean. I only know what I’m to do, and that is in case of danger, to take you as near to Calais as I dare; and that will be a good ways from the Calais gates, I can tell you. I think something of my own head and have no wish to have it chopped off by Madame La Guillotine. Well, there’s danger right enough. You must come with us at once. Have you wits enough about you to rig yourselves up in plain, decent, sensible farmer clothes? I often take farmer folks into the towns. Hurry! You’ve no time to lose. They are burning houses all along the line and yours is on the list!”

While the driver had been speaking they had all gathered about him, too amazed to utter a sound. When the governess started to protest, the driver put up his hand.

“You are stupid, citizeness, and by your stupidity may loose your own life and the lives of those in your care. Get yourselves dressed at once. My coach is in the highroad. We must start within an hour. Every rod nearer to Calais means safety for you, and just that much farther away from some of your enemies.”

“I’ll ride my horse,” said Bertran a little stupidly. He was dazed by all that the man had said.

“You’ll do it if you want to lose your fine, black head, but not otherwise, my young popinjay,” answered the driver calmly.

Cécile came up to him and spoke to him gently, her eyes looking straight into his as she held out her hand.

“In spite of all you say, you are saving our lives,” she said. “May I see the note from Dian? I know his writing. We must be very sure, you understand, at a time like this!”

The driver put his hand inside his belt and drew out his note from Dian. Cécile read it and then addressed Madame le Pont.

“It is from Dian. He says that we are in danger and in an emergency this man is to help us. We are to go to some hiding place near Calais and wait there for help.” Cécile’s voice shook with excitement, in spite of her outward calmness.

The driver turned to Grigge.

“The boy here will see to you after that. I have to go straight to Calais and dare not be late. All you can expect from me is the use of my coach as far as I think it best to take you without too much risk to myself. I’ll tell the shepherd where you are, or get word to him safely, but be sure to understand that it’s for his sake I’m doing this, and not yours!”

There was no time to lose, the driver had said. It seemed as though the minutes had wings. They planned, discussed, rummaged in the servants’ old apartments, found suitable clothes, and put them on. Then they packed special valuables which Neville buried in the ground. At last they were ready to start. First they went through the woods to Mother Barbette’s cottage. They had sent Grigge and the driver to beg her to go with them, but she insisted that nothing could induce her to do so. She would wait there for her naughty, darling Jean. The driver told her she was right. “Nothing can happen to you if you go to your cousins in the hovel,” he told her.

Mother Barbette wept bitterly as she saw them coming toward her through the clearing in the woods. They did not seem at all funny to her in their disguise, though at another time she would have had a hearty laugh at Bertran in his farmer boy’s smock, his hair flapping about his face, and at the dignified Hortense in faded grey homespun, her hair in stiff braids on each side of her ears. It was no time for laughter. They were all tense and white. The governess put her head on Mother Barbette’s shoulder with a sob as she said good-by.

“We will surely find the children and bring them safely back with us when we come,” she said brokenly.

“They are safe. I’m sure of it, and I don’t worry half as much as you think I do, Madame. I know them both so well. They are so smart. I know my Jean will come back to me, and I think that Dian will bring him,” answered the simple soul bravely, though the tears ran down her cheeks.

“Dear Mother Barbette, this isn’t good-by. It’s just au revoir. We will not rest until we find Marie Josephine and Jean.” As she spoke, Cécile put her arms around Mother Barbette and kissed her.

The driver, who was really a kind-hearted soul, cleared his throat.

“The moon’s up and it’s time to start. No more of this good-by business, or it’ll be good-by for good,” he said, as they all stood at the cottage door, the pine-filled air from the forest blowing about them.

Grigge spoke to his aunt.

“You’d best go to the hut and stay if there’s trouble. You’ll be safe enough there,” he said, and he did not sneer as was his wont. There was a dignity about him that none of them had seen before. He was risking his life for people whom he despised, and he was doing it for the sake of a friend. Perhaps, sometime, he would do the like for sheer love of his brother man. At any rate, he had taken the first step in that direction.

They were off at last, all of them in the great roomy coach, Bertran and Grigge sitting beside the driver. The horses, after a good rest and feed, went like the wind itself! It seemed as though they knew that danger lay behind!

The girls and the governess were tired and bewildered and heartsick. They could think of nothing but Marie Josephine. Finally, after they had thought and said all that they could about the runaways, Denise remarked:

“It’s so wonderful to think they dared to go to Paris. The road is direct enough and Marie Josephine knows it well by coach, but little Jean knows nothing.”

“I teased him once because he had never been anywhere, and he said some day he was going to visit his cousins near Melon,” said Bertran.

The driver turned and looked at him. “Melon—let me see—Melon. Why, I took in two children the other day. They seemed dead beat out, and slept all day in the back of the coach. The boy told me, in the evening, that he had cousins near Melon!”

The exclamations and the questions were so numerous that Champar was sorry he had spoken.

“Stop and tell us at once. We must know about the children going to Melon,” they begged, but he paid not the slightest attention to their entreaties and only urged the horses to go faster. He intended driving all night, and it was not until he stopped to rest the horses before they took a hill, that he spoke again at all.

“Now just you listen to me, citizeness, and you young people. You’ve got yourselves to think about and you’re not going to help the young brats who’ve run away by getting your heads snapped off by the guillotine, which,” he went on, speaking impressively and with something of a relish, “is what is happening to most of your acquaintances, and serves them right, too, some of them. Now, maybe the two I picked up were the parties you’re talking about. The boy certainly did look a great deal like the woman you went to say good-by to at the cottage. A fine woman,” he went on meditatively, “a good, honest, sensible woman. Well, I’ll tell you what I think, and you needn’t have any fits about it. I think them two parties is just as lively to-day as you are yourselves. I think they’re in Paris, and I’ll get word to the shepherd about them, too!” After he had delivered this long speech, the driver picked up his whip to go on when the governess spoke again.

“Above everything we must find the little girl and boy, you know,” she said, holding her odd striped shawl drawn tightly about her shoulders. Her face looked wan and pinched under her dark bonnet.

“Above everything, citizeness, you ought to want to save the necks of these children even though you may not care a fig about your own,” Champar replied. Then he began to sing a gruff doggerel, drowning entirely Madame le Pont’s fervent reply.

Toward dawn they slept for a few hours. In the morning they stopped under a blooming apple tree and ate some food. Champar seemed pleased with the progress they were making and condescended to sing them a song or two. People passed by in farmer carts and waved a greeting. No one thought it at all strange to see a farmer’s family having a picnic under an apple tree.

They were off again, their coach making a cloud of dust behind them. All that day Champar and Grigge talked earnestly together, ignoring Bertran who sat beside them, and whom Grigge snubbed at every occasion. It was decided that they were to stay in a barn, back of a small farmhouse, which had met with a fire the year before, and which belonged to an uncle of Champar’s. The coach driver would leave food with them on his way back from Calais, and would report to Dian as to their whereabouts. That was all that he could do, and it was a risk at any cost, though the barn was in a lonely bit of country near the sea, and quite the other way from the main road to Calais.

It was midnight before they saw the lights of Calais and the first grey outline of the sea. Champar knew his way well for he had often visited his uncle. Sure enough there was the barn, grey, and deserted by everything but rats! Champar and Grigge and Bertran carried in the rugs and blankets and enough food to last overnight. Then Grigge turned to them all.

“There is a mission I have to do. I will come again,” he said.

There was a moment’s silence as they watched the two climb up on the coach. Grigge turned and spoke to them again. “You are to stay here until I come,” he said.

“We trust you, Grigge.” It was Cécile who spoke, her lovely face very white in the starlight.

They called their thanks after the coach driver. Champar’s cross-eye leered at them over his shoulder. He waved his hand.

“Keep to yourselves, and keep an eye on that fat boy or he will give you all away!” he called.

Chapter XXIII

IN GREAT-AUNT HORTENSE’S HOUSE

“Was it while the bakery man was saying that he would make you cry that you heard the noise first, or just before?”

“Lisle said it was while the man was speaking that he heard the noise first. You’re so excited, Marie Josephine, you don’t listen to anything.” As she spoke, Rosanne took a sip of the tea which Humphrey had just brewed for them. “It’s so bitter, Humphrey,” she said to him over her shoulder.

The two girls sat on each side of Lisle on the chest. It was the next day after they had come to the cellar, and to Rosanne it was most bewildering to be there in the dusk of the old place with her dear Marie Josephine by her side.

Humphrey came up to them with a steaming jug.

“Never tha mind if it’s bitter, lass, take th’ tea and let it warm tha well.” As he spoke Humphrey peered at Rosanne anxiously, his round face full of concern. He had rescued her himself and had had her in his care all these long weeks. Her face seemed very white in the grey shadows of the hidden cellar. Marie Josephine and Lisle held out their horn drinking cups for more tea, and then Humphrey filled a cup for himself. He was a little worried about his homespun traveling bag which he had brought with him to Paris, and which Dian was to bring when he came back from a visit to the alley.

“Sit here, Humphrey Trail; there’s room.” Lisle shoved along the wide chest as he spoke and the farmer sat down beside him. He had never heard so much talk going on at one time before in his life. It had seemed, since he had arrived the night before, that everyone wanted to speak at the same time, and that each one said the same things and asked the same questions over and over. Marie Josephine was saying for the third time, “I’m going to see maman at Great-aunt Hortense’s to-day!” Well, that was a task that had been left for Dian, telling Marie Josephine that her mother was a prisoner and that her aunt had died. Part of the telling Lisle did at once.

“Great-aunt Hortense died some weeks ago, Marie Josephine,” he said.

She looked at him, her black eyes wide with astonishment. He was growing more used to her wild, unkempt appearance, but he still grinned every time he looked at her.

“Poor Great-aunt Hortense! How she must miss everything! She did so love to be in it all, never wanted to be left out of anything, even our children’s parties! Great-aunt Hortense gone—why—it makes everything seem different!”

“Everything is different.” As he spoke, Lisle stood up and went over to Humphrey, who had put the cover on his precious little tin of tea. “I must talk with you, Humphrey Trail.” he said, and drew the farmer along to the far end of the room. “It’s no use,” he went on, speaking in low tones, a precaution entirely unnecessary, for the two girls were deep in the account of their various adventures. “I simply must get into a disguise and go out on to the streets. I can’t stay here any longer, when my mother is a prisoner!”

Humphrey answered him: “Tha went out once almost to tha death. Th’art a brave lad but tha needs caution. Ha’ patience now until th’ shepherd can best find a way for us all to help. He found tha when I was fair distracted.”

Lisle put a hand on each of Humphrey’s shoulders and smiled across at him.

“Humphrey Trail, Humphrey Trail!” he exclaimed. “I am glad I have you for a friend. What can we ever do for you, after all you have done for us!”

Humphrey’s answer surprised him beyond measure.

“Be grateful for tha life and make thaself content soon with the simple ways of the farm in Yorkshire!”

Lisle still stood with his hands on Humphrey’s shoulders, and as the farmer spoke he realized suddenly their immediate peril. They were to leave not only Paris but France, too, and Humphrey Trail was offering them all he had to give in the way of hospitality in England!

Lisle looked across at the girls, and then back at Humphrey.

“You mean we are to go to England. There is so much to think about and to plan. I wish we three, you, Dian, and I, could be alone so that we could plan what’s best to do,” he said.

It was just at that moment that the shepherd appeared, coming down the secret stairs backward. Marie Josephine and Rosanne jumped off the chest and ran up to him. He stood in their midst with his hands at his sides, looking about at all of them, and for the first time since they had known him, all of them felt that he, for the moment, was fighting something that was trying to overpower him, and that this something was fear! It was gone almost as it came, his face cleared, and he smiled, putting his hand on Marie Josephine’s shoulder.

“There is work for you, Little Mademoiselle,” he said.

Lisle had come up to them.

“Let there be work for me, too, Dian,” he said.

Dian nodded. “Yes, work for each one of us so that we may go safely out of this mad city, and that you who are in danger may find refuge in England.” As he spoke he took Marie Josephine’s hand and went on speaking, this time addressing himself directly to Humphrey:

“The servant Henri was genuine in his repentance. He has offered practical help in one direction. I will return with the Little Mademoiselle later in the day.”

Lisle broke in impatiently: “What can Marie Josephine do that I cannot do if I’m disguised properly? Why should she take the risk while I am here?” he protested.

Dian answered him quietly: “The Little Mademoiselle will be safe. You came between me and a gunshot last night. Help me once again by staying here until I am ready.”

He lifted Marie Josephine on to the first rung of the tall ladder stairs and then started up after her. The others watched them from below.

When they had closed the secret panel, Dian stood looking down at Marie Josephine, a world of compassion in his eyes.

“Little Mademoiselle, you are like your grandfather. Remember him to-day, for there is much for you to do. Your mother is a prisoner in the house of your Great-aunt Hortense who died some weeks ago. She is in peril, but you can save her!”

Dian had spoken the hard words quietly. It was better to say them all at once, and not wait until the time came to act. Her eyes met his bravely and her answer was characteristic.

“Lisle wants to be the one, poor Lisle!” she said.

“He cannot help at the moment. Now I will tell you how you can aid in saving your mother. We have all told you, indeed you know, that you came so easily through the city gates because you are, in your disguise, very much like the little Vivi, who is Mademoiselle de Soigné’s friend. Vivi goes about the city everywhere. She is known by soldiers, doormen, street people, and their children. She sells licorice water, as did her father, and she is popular among the crowds. One of the men on guard at the west gate is her especial friend, and Little Mademoiselle, when you and Jean came through the gates he thought you were Vivi and one of her chums. If you will go to the house of the Marquise du Ganne with Vivi’s licorice water tray, and sell your wares among the crowds who daily throng the lower halls, you can help to save your mother!”

Dian sat down on an overturned barrel, and Marie Josephine placed herself on the lowest step of the cellar stairs.

“Maman,” she murmured faintly. “I want to see maman.” Tears brimmed in her eyes and fell silently on to her shabby jacket. She brushed them away with the back of her hand, and in spite of his pity and love for her, Dian smiled. It was so like her unconsciously to act her part. He waited with his usual patience until she was quiet, then he said:

“Have we not always felt that things would come right if we did not let in fear. All is going well for us, and we can look beyond to-day as we did the time we watched the storm from the terrace and you were the first to see a gleam of gold through the black clouds! Do not fear for your mother, only have faith. Now listen well. Henri is not bad, only weak, and he wants to make amends. He is now a soldier of the army of the revolution, and he leaves with his regiment at three o’clock to-day. He has been on guard all the morning in the hall of your great-aunt’s house. Food is always brought to your mother at noon. Henri says that she is then left entirely to herself until night. He has been on guard during the week, and, as he has served in your great-aunt’s house, he knows every corner of it.” Dian paused a moment and then went on slowly: “He knows of a small door on the first floor which leads into the garden, and he has given me the key to this door. People are not supposed to go to the upper floor where your mother is imprisoned, but little Vivi has been there several times. You know the house, and the way to go down the back stairs. You are Vivi from now on. She is safe at home, gladly staying inside in order to help her friends. I will tell you more as we walk along. Are you ready and willing to go?”

“Yes, as quickly as ever we can.” She jumped to her feet and followed him up the cellar stairs. It all seemed too unreal and strange to be true, as they walked through the silent house and out of the door into the garden, just as she and Rosanne had walked with Gonfleur that long ago—oh, so very long ago it seemed—the night of the bal masqué!

She and Dian mingled with the crowds going up the Champs Élysées, turning off on the street that led to the house of the Marquise du Ganne. They walked slowly. No one noticed them, and, except for an occasional greeting, no one spoke to them. Dian had often walked about with Vivi, and he was known to be a peasant from Brittany, which was his original home.

They could see the dark blur of the Bois against the soft spring sky, and Dian welcomed the thought that came to him. He had something to say to Marie Josephine that was going to be difficult, and he felt that it would be easier for her to hear it in the sweet spring woods than on the crowded street, so he suggested that they go on to the Bois and rest, before they went to Great-aunt Hortense’s house.

“There is more that I have to tell you, Little Mademoiselle,” he said.

They sat down under a great elm, the tender green tracery of leaves above them, the peace of sunshine and warm earth all about them. Dian turned toward Marie Josephine, his face alight with earnestness.

“Little Mademoiselle, you are ready to do brave things, but I am asking you now to do one that will be bravest of all. Champar, the coach driver, who is my friend, is risking much to save you all.” Dian looked off at the still, dim vistas of the wood as he spoke. The noise of the city, the harsh yelling and the rumble of carts, came to them clearly from the near-by street. Dian put it so, saying that Champar was doing all this for them out of the kindness of his heart. He did not say that he had done the coach driver a service once which was so great that it had meant life itself to him.

“Tell me what it is, Dian. I don’t know if I am brave. I’m not sure. But for maman I could do it. Shall we not go soon to Great-aunt Hortense’s house so that I can see maman?” said Marie Josephine. She could think of nothing else but that she was to see her mother and aid in saving her. She tried to realize that her great-aunt’s house was really her mother’s prison, but it only seemed like a bad dream. She could not believe that the dim, stately house, where they had so often gone for chocolate on winter afternoons, could now be a place from which to flee, an enemy’s stronghold.

She looked confidently at Dian, and the trust that had always come to her when with him, steadied her now.

“Tell me, Dian, what is it I shall do?”

“A week from to-day, if all goes well, you and the others will be with your mother in, or rather near, Calais. Your sister, the governess, the Du Monde and Proté are there now. I saw Champar this morning and he told me where to find them. I hope that a fishing schooner will take you all to England. I spoke to your mother through the door for a moment this morning. She has been told that her children are to join her in Calais, and she thinks that you are already on your way. Henri has given her that impression. He has given her, for a disguise, the clothes of his sister who was to have gone to a cousin in the country, and for whom he has procured a passport. She is not able to leave, and your mother will go in her stead. Her passport is in order. When she leaves you at the garden gate she is to go at once to the Place de la Bastille and has orders what else to do. Little Mademoiselle, this is hard—she must not know that it is her own Marie Josephine who is saving her! Safety for you all lies in her not knowing this, for she would not leave the city if she thought that one of you were here!”

Marie Josephine thought of all that Dian had said, a little later, as she sat on a secluded bench in the great entrance hall of Great-aunt Hortense’s house. All about her were emblems of the revolution. She would have laughed out loud at the thought of Great-aunt Hortense’s horror if she had not been too excited and tremulous to laugh at anything. A tri-color banner was draped over the entrance to the grand salon. At the carved oak table in the center of the hall sat three men wearing red caps, and all down the dusky corridors other red caps bobbed up and down as citizens walked to and fro debating and wrangling. From an anteroom, a cold, gilded apartment, came a jangle of voices. A meeting of one of the sections was taking place there. All through the city were clubs or sections, each composed of men with different ideas from the others, no two ever agreeing on anything except to advocate bloodshed and to show no mercy.

Marie had put her tray with its jug of licorice water and its jangling cups on the floor beside her. Vivi had left it for her at the stand of a nut seller near the Marquise du Ganne’s house. All sorts of booths and stands had sprung up overnight in the once fashionable parts of Paris.

Dian would be waiting for Madame Saint Frère, in her disguise as Henri’s sister, in the Place de la Bastille. Henri had already been gone some hours with his regiment. Marie Josephine was to seize her opportunity to slide through the shadowy halls, up the back stairs to the room at the end of the hall. Her heart beat so fast that it seemed as though some one must hear it. She saw that it was not going to be an easy thing to slip away, and she made up her mind that she must not, under any circumstance, let any chance go by. Some men came up to her and demanded a drink. She stooped over for her tray and stood up.

She did not feel as though it were herself at all who poured the sickish-looking, grey mixture into the tin cups and received in exchange coins which she put in the pocket of her torn skirt. She was careful not to speak any more than she could help, for fear that her voice would betray her. She could look like Vivi, and instinct seemed to tell her how to be like her, but she was afraid of her voice.

As she walked about among the crowd, through the old familiar halls, selling her wares, she remembered what Dian had said: “Have no fear. Fear is nothing and it cannot talk to you or keep you from doing what is right. It has no power!” She remembered something else that he had said: “You are so changed. It will be easy, indeed, for your mother not to think of you at all, except as a part of her rescue. Shake your hair well over your face and do not look directly at her more than you can help. Remember she thinks that you are near Calais!”

Dian had given her the two keys. She could feel them jingling together in her inner pocket. She wanted to put her tray down somewhere so that she could slip away more easily at the right moment. She waited until there was a lull in the demand for licorice water, then quietly slipped over to a corner and ducked her head from under the leather strap which held the tray about her neck. As she put the tray down on the floor and turned away some one called to her. It was Georges Fardou, the man who had let Vivi through the gates to “Pick a flower.” He looked like a big, shadowy giant as he stood there in the dark hall.

“Come, give us a dance like the one at the West Barricade. The 'Ça Ira,’ or anything that’s full of go!” he called with a laugh.

The “Ça Ira.” She had heard it sung in the streets that very morning as she had come through the rue Royale with Dian. She had seen it danced, too, a wild, strange weaving in and out of dreadful people. She had shut her eyes at Dian’s bidding and held tight to his hand, and he had talked to her in his quiet way of Pigeon Valley, as they walked through the city.

“I’ll do another one to-day,” she heard herself saying, and it seemed as though she spoke harshly without trying, her mouth was so dry.

She began to dance, holding her tattered skirts about her, swaying back and forth in the dim, close air. She had danced this way so many times before at Les Vignes, up and down the veranda and through the tall rows of white lilies along the south terrace. She tried to think of these happy times as she danced in and out of the arched doorways and about the big table in the center of the hall. Applause greeted her as she stopped, and also a harsh voice from the anteroom door.

“Have the brat clear out, and keep some sort of quiet about here while the section’s in session,” said the voice from the doorway, and then its owner disappeared.

For a moment her heart stood still, but after a laugh or two, the small crowd that had stood watching her disappeared, Vivi’s friend among them. At the first moment that she felt that she was unobserved, she crept through the back of the entrance hall into a corridor beyond it, paused, listened, then crept stealthily up the narrow winding stairs.

She knew the room. One time when they had been staying with her great-aunt for several weeks, she had spent an afternoon there with Proté, dear Proté!

She stood in the shadow close against the wall, looking down the corridor. All was quiet. She put the key in the lock and tried it. It gave easily and she stepped inside, then shrank back against the door, putting her hand over her mouth to smother the little cry of surprise that had almost escaped her. She had thought to find maman, and in her place there was a thin, wispy-haired woman in a snuff-colored cape and close-fitting drab bonnet, with a greasy face and half-shut eyes. It was maman! As she stood there by the door Marie Josephine remembered something Great-aunt Hortense had said: “There never was any one like your mother, Marie, for play-acting. Ah, you children can’t believe it, but it’s true. The queen has begged her to join them at Versailles! She could do her beloved Molière characters best of all.”

“Come, you’re sure you were not watched, little girl?” maman was saying.

Marie Josephine nodded.

“Then come at once—the back stairs—you know the garden door? I’ve never been that way myself. Quick, child!”

The voice was the same!

“You’d best talk like a woman of the people, citizeness, otherwise you are splendid in your disguise!” Marie Josephine clasped her hands together suddenly, looking up for a second into maman’s eyes.

“Yes, yes, I know. I will remember, but be quick, child.” Maman put her hand on the door, and Marie Josephine stepped back into the hall, keeping close to the wall. There was only silence, except for the voices from the halls below.

Marie Josephine never forgot the breathless flight through the familiar back halls of the great house. In spite of the tense excitement she thought how funny it was that she knew the halls so well, and maman knew them not at all! Roaming about houses had always been one of Marie Josephine’s chief delights!

She tried to remember what Dian had told her: “Do not let fear keep you from doing what is right. Fear has no power.” She said this over and over under her breath as they went out the side door into the garden, and found themselves facing the grey wall that surrounded it. There were voices near by. She fumbled with the lock. It was rusty, and the garden door was a little swollen from recent spring rains. It did not give.

“Hurry, child!” Maman’s voice sounded in her ears. She stood quietly with the key in her hands for a moment, trying to still the agony of fear that seemed to beat about her. “Fear has no power,” Dian had said. She felt a sudden freedom. She was doing right. She put the key in the lock again and turned it quickly. The door caught, moved a breath, then caught again. At last it gave! They were outside in a deserted long, grey street. Maman turned to her, and even in that moment of still great danger, put her arm around her.

“You have done me good service, little one. I have children whom I shall see very soon. They are safe out of Paris, a son and two daughters. You—there is something about you a little like one of them. God bless you.”

They had been given their directions. Maman was off, walking quickly in the direction of the Place de la Bastille, not daring to run. Marie Josephine watched her until she had almost disappeared.

“There is something about you a little like one of them!”

The words stayed with her as she ran on toward the rue Royale. When she reached the crowded streets she slackened her steps. She was to go at once to the Saint Frère house and to wait there with the others for Dian.

Chapter XXIV

THROUGH THE GATES

Raoul woke up feeling very ill the morning of the day that Marie Josephine went to the house of Great-aunt Hortense and let her mother through the garden door. He had eaten heartily of pig’s feet and apricot preserve, presents to the seed shopman and his family from the market gardener’s wife.

Late that same afternoon Dian visited him in his stuffy room at the top of the seed shop. He found him cross and unhappy. His head ached and he could not stop thinking about the pig’s feet and the apricot preserve, much as he tried to do so. He did not have a great many things besides food to think about, and felt at a loss. He cheered up on seeing his shepherd friend, and when Dian rose to take his leave, said he felt better. Dian went out and came back again with some grapes. He placed them in a cracked dish on a table near the oat-straw shakedown where Raoul was lying.

“You will be glad of their refreshment in the morning, though you make a face at them now,” he said, smiling. Then he sat down again on a stool near the rough bed.

“My master’s friend who knows of medicine saw me, and he says I’ll not be able to leave the city for some days; I have fever,” Raoul said, giving his hard pillow an impatient poke. Dian took the pillow and shook it up, and lifted Raoul so that he rested more comfortably. Then he sat quietly beside him, thinking deeply.

“Will your master drive out the cart himself, then?” he asked the boy.

Raoul shook his head vigorously.

“Not him! He’s deep in talking, talking all the time, going to section meetings, and quarreling with everybody. Tortot the baker won’t speak to him or to the seed shopman. He’s just about distracted since they broke down his shop and played such havoc with his goods. He hasn’t dared to open up the shop since because of the mob.” Raoul raised his head from the pillow and spoke confidentially to Dian. “He doesn’t say anything about the boy that disappeared from the shop that night. He knows he’d get himself into a good measure of trouble over hiding an aristocrat that way. They’d say in the convention he was trying to help him get away, instead of holding him until the right time to get rid of him. Oh, you can wager he’ll keep still enough about that. I don’t care what they do. I’m going to stay home when once I get there. I hate this old place and everybody here but you!” At this last remark Raoul became so upset that he threw the pillow to the other end of the room. He seemed to feel better after he had done so, for he grinned at Dian.

The door opened just then and the market gardener came in, a prosperous-looking, red-faced man in grey breeches and dark-brown waistcoat decorated with the tri-colored rosette.

“A fine boy, a fine boy. He would do well to eat only black bread and garlic for a time. He’s been living too high, that’s what’s the matter with him!” he exclaimed in his bluff way, standing over the cot and looking good-naturedly down at Raoul.

Dian stood, and, leaning over, laid his hands on Raoul’s shoulder.

“I will see you again before very long, perhaps at your home in the country that you love. Sometime I will show you my flock of sheep, and you will meet the little Jean of whom I have told you,” he said. Then he turned to the market gardener. “I know a boy who will drive your cart to-morrow, if you like. He lives in a cellar, and is in dire straits. He will be only too glad of earning even a few coins, for he has a journey before him, and a mother and sisters dependent upon him. I’d like to do him the good turn.”

Now Dian was a prime favorite with the market gardener, who was constantly wrangling with the men he knew in the city, though he cared not a fig for any of them except the seed shopman. He admired Dian’s bulk and his free, fearless ways. “There’s a man for you,” he would say. “There’s a man of France, with a broad back and broad ways. There’s a man!” He greeted Dian’s suggestion cordially.

“Bring on your boy. I want one I can trust, and these Paris brats are as sly as their fathers. I, for one, will be glad to get away from the whole dirty, quarrelsome lot of them,” he said. There was an answering mutter of agreement from the bed.

“He is a friend of the little Vivi, and a worthy lad. Where will I find the cart? I will myself see that the lad is started in good time and order,” said Dian.

“It will stand, as always, at the end of the row by the West Barricade, and I will see that it is ready. You can tell him the road and the way, as you know the country about, but it would be well for me to have a word with him. You say he knows the road? He’s not one of the city brats?” As the market gardener asked this last question, he took out his long pipe and lit it. Settling back on the stool that Dian had vacated, he drew a long puff from it, unconscious of the wry face that Raoul made as the tobacco smoke filled the room.

“He knows all the country near you, for he comes from the road east of Calais, and has been back and forth in summer weather many times,” Dian answered. Then he opened the door and went out, saying over his shoulder as he did so:

“The lad and I will be at the West Barricade to-morrow at sundown, or just before the gates close. You never go until then, I take it?”

“No, we hold on for the trade until dusk. I’ll be there by the cart. Raoul here will be his own man in a few days, and will, I hope, have learned his lesson about going slow with pigs’ feet,” answered Raoul’s master.

“Give my regards to the funny fat man in the brown cloak,” called Raoul, and Dian could hear him laughing, weak as he was, as he went down the seed shop stairs.

Dian knew that all had gone well with Marie Josephine, for he had stayed about the house and halls, and had known when she had gone up the back stairs, though no one else had seen the little grey figure slip away. He had gone out and waited, fighting the fear that almost choked him as the minutes seemed to fly by, and the door in the garden wall did not open. Then he had seen them come out and go their different ways, as they had been told to do, and so, instead of going in again to the house, to give his life if need be for them, he had gone on to the seed shop and there, as always, he had found a way.

He felt a sense of relief in the knowledge that Henri had gone with his regiment that morning, for though he was grateful that the man had waked up to his real self, putting his cowardice aside and doing a last act of helpfulness in aiding the comtesse to escape, still the knowledge of the hidden cellar was not for him. Dian, when he reached the Saint Frère house, walked up and down the upper cellar for some time, his hands clasped before him, his face lifted to the dark, dusty rafters. He felt that the old comte was very near to him, not a wraith of his person, but the loving earnestness of his spirit. He was doing the best he knew how, this shepherd, in his own simple way. To him it meant only trusting in the power of good to stand by them.

As soon as he had opened the slide he heard Marie Josephine’s voice calling softly to him. The lanthorn had made a scraping noise against the stone wall as he lifted it. Faint as it was, she had heard it, for she had been sitting on the lowest rung of the stairs, listening for him, ever since she had returned, breathless and half bewildered, from the house of Great-aunt Hortense.

She stood before him with clasped hands as he emerged from the gloom of the stairs.

“Maman is safe? Tell me, Dian!” She caught his sleeve and held on to it as they walked toward the others. Rosanne was sleeping in the alcove near the chest. Lisle was walking up and down in the room beyond, Humphrey Trail beside him, both talking earnestly. Jean, who was now very much awake, ran up to Dian and took hold of the other side of his coat.

“She is out of Paris. She reached the Place de la Bastille and went off in the coach as Henri’s sister. The passport was in order. I watched her go through the gates in a public coach. I saw you open the garden gate. You did not come in vain to Paris, Little Mademoiselle!” the shepherd answered her, and his words of praise, as well as the welcome news of her mother’s safety, brought sudden tears to her eyes.

“I do not feel little any more, Dian. I have grown up these last days,” she said, turning to meet Rosanne, who had wakened, and who, with the others, came crowding up to them. Lisle and Marie Josephine held each other’s hands, and Marie Josephine hid her face in his sleeve. Their mother was safe out of Paris. Dian had seen her drive out of the gates in a coach. Very simply Marie Josephine told them what she had done as they all stood about her, tense and eager.

“You danced for those men there in the hall—you! They thought you were Vivi!” Lisle could not believe it. His sister, Marie Josephine!

He stood very still while she told them of going up to her mother, slipping through the dusk when no one saw her, and finding a strange woman of the people who was maman and yet was not! “Maman was so wonderful. I told her that she must try to speak like the people. I said, 'Citizeness, you will do well to remember that you must have the speech of the people at the gates.’ The key would not turn in the lock at first—I mean in the garden door lock—but it did at last and we got safely outside. Maman did not know me, of course. Maman thinks that we are waiting for her near Calais, but just as she said good-by she—she—said, 'There is something about you a little like—like one of them ch—children——’” Marie Josephine drew this last out in a long sob, putting her face down in the hollow of her arm.

How they comforted her, one and all. Humphrey told stories of his Yorkshire farm, until he had to clear his throat again and again, and they begged him to go on even when he said he simply could not say another word. He held Jean on his knee and sang a funny Yorkshire song to him. The time flew by with happy talk as they roasted apples over the little fire, no one objecting in the least to the smoke.

Dian sat back in a far corner, his hands clasped on his knee, his eyes closed. The hidden cellar had performed its task, had justified itself. It had saved the lives of two of the Saint Frères, and of their friends. It had proved itself to be a stronghold, a refuge, even a home. It had opened its dark arms to receive the last Lisle Saint Frère, protecting him from those who would have had his head on the guillotine block. It had opened those same arms for the little girl who knew and loved it, and who had been the one of her generation chosen to know of it. To-morrow was in God’s hands. Dian was not afraid. He was glad for many things. He was glad to hear children’s laughter, glad that the comtesse was through the gates and that Marie Josephine had been the one to aid her, glad of the friendship of honest Humphrey Trail, and that there would be a safe refuge for them all with Humphrey in England.

He stood up, his great height bringing him almost to a level with the rough stone ceiling, and, coming over to them, answered their welcoming call of “Dian, come and stay with us,” with a smile that had in it something of sadness. Then he went over to the chest and, standing by it, beckoned them to come to him. They came, all of them, and looked at him in wonder as he stood there lost in thought.

Suddenly he turned toward Lisle, who stood beside him, and he touched him lightly on the shoulder. It was as though he was knighting him for something.

“You are the last of these Saint Frères who have been such a brave race of men. You have the name of the first one of them of whom there is record, and of whom there is much to remember. He helped to build this hidden place with his own hands. He said that one member of the family in each generation should know of this cellar and, knowing, should bear in mind always that it was built with a prayer, and that the prayer was to remember one’s brother, to turn away from tyranny and the lust of power. That was what the first Lisle Saint Frère wanted of those of his own blood who were to come after him.” Dian looked at Lisle as he spoke. “Your grandfather was the one who came nearest to the first Lisle’s wish. Of that I am sure,” he said simply.

Then Lisle did a strange thing, so unlike him that those about him could not believe their eyes. He clasped his hands as though in prayer and stood silent for a moment, and it was as though he neither saw nor was aware of those about him.

“Help me to be like the first Lisle,” he prayed.

“Dian—see Dian’s face!” whispered Rosanne to Marie Josephine, and they both turned and looked up at the shepherd. There was a light on his face, and in his eyes a depth of happiness.

Dian took a key from his inner pocket, and stooping over, unlocked the chest. Then he turned and looked again at Lisle.

“I believe that you will be like the first Lisle and that you will have knowledge beyond his to work out a way of helping the people, and all those that need you,” he said. Then he leaned over, and, reaching down into the depths of the chest, drew out a tray. It was made of iron and it exactly fitted the chest. On it were bags, some of goatskin, some of raw hides, several of velvet, and one of leather.

He touched them softly with his hands, tenderly, broodingly, the way a miser might have touched his wealth, after the visit of an angel who had awakened him to the glories of giving, instead of keeping.

“There is gold here, old money, some of which is valueless but for the spirit in which it was given. The one of each generation who has known of the secret cellar has put something here, has given of his store,” he said.

“I haven’t anything to give,” said Marie Josephine, a quiver in her voice.

“You offered your life, but the sacrifice was not needed,” the shepherd answered her.

“I am the last Lisle now and I have nothing to give,” Lisle said in the humble way which was new to him.

“You would have given your life a hundred times over, had there been a way. You have given a prayer that is better than all this,” Dian answered him.

“Whom does it belong to?” asked Jean, who was delighted with the rows of little bags inside the odd old chest.

Dian put his hand again on Lisle’s shoulder.

“It belongs to this Lisle,” he said. Then he reached down and picked up a dark-stained piece of paper. There were letters on the paper, burnt into the parchment with the sharp end of a stick. They were so curiously worded that Lisle had to study them, when Dian handed him the paper, before he could make them out. They were in French, but of the old language. After a moment of silence Lisle read very slowly:

“In the hour of need thou shall of this treasure give to the creatures who have the sorest want. Keep to thine own that for thy bread. Give of the rest, not to thyself, but to thy brother!”

There was silence there in the depths of the earth after Lisle had read from the parchment. It seemed to stay with them all the evening. It seemed almost as though it spoke to them. “Give of the rest, not to thyself, but to thy brother.”

Long ago Dian had gone over the bags with the old comte. He and Lisle now put away, in the bottom of the chest, the quaint old coins in their faded bags, handling them tenderly as though they loved them. They decided to take two bags of the more modern money with them.

“Remember that I leave you at the boat, and that you must find out, with Humphrey’s aid, whether the English government can change this for you. It may be worthless now, except for its value in gold,” Dian said to Lisle.

They locked the chest and laid the two bags of money on the shelf next to the horn drinking cups. It was late and Jean was beginning to yawn.

Humphrey went about through the narrow alcove-like rooms beyond, putting a rug here and a pillow there, intent on everyone’s comfort and glad indeed to have something to do, for he was sorely troubled. It was all very well to spend one’s time over an old chest, and he had been as interested as the others; but to-morrow they were to make a run for their lives! He knew that Dian had some plan, and that there had been no chance to tell him. He was relieved beyond words when the shepherd called them all together.

Years afterward Humphrey used to recall that night to himself as he sat in a corner of his own fire-side, his pipe between his lips. Neighbors happening in would have to speak to him several times before he would be aware of their presence. “Ah—yes—welcome in. I was thinking back a long way, a long way,” he would say. Dian in their midst telling them about “to-morrow!”

It was very simple. Dian and Humphrey had passports, being citizens, one of France, the other one of England. There had been no trouble about them. Dian’s parents, who were not living, were known to have been good, honest citizens in their day, who had been oppressed by the aristocrats. He himself was a shepherd. Humphrey was a farmer who had been in France on a holiday. They would pass out at the gates after the children had gone through.

And how was that to be done? The little Vivi again. Georges Fardou, her friend, was on guard at sundown. That Dian knew well. He was always there when the carts went out. A boy, a friend of Vivi’s, would drive a vegetable cart, the market gardener would be there himself to see that all was in order. He would explain to the gatemen that the lad was taking Raoul’s place and was quite to be trusted. The lad would be Lisle!

The children, Rosanne and Jean and Marie Josephine, were to run about with Vivi. She was Georges Fardou’s friend and he never resisted her appeals. He would let them run through and play on the other side for a while. They would be met by Champar, who had fleet horses ready. They must not fear. That was as definite a plan as they could agree upon.

All knew that there was a great risk, but there was little fear in the hearts of any of them that night in the cellar. They sat about on one of the big rugs and ate their late supper of bread and cheese and chocolate. Then they went to their various cosy beds of shawls and rugs, and slept soundly until morning.

It was while Humphrey was frying the bacon for breakfast, assisted by Marie Josephine, who stood by the frying pan and turned the slices with a one-pronged fork when they began to brown nicely, that Lisle spoke with Dian.

“I am glad that I shall not be with the others going through the gates, for some one might recognize me and suspect them all. I am so much taller than the others, too big to be a playmate for Vivi. Tell me, Dian, what will become of her. I do not like to leave her unbefriended. There must be something we can do for her.”

Dian was glad to hear Lisle say this, and his face bore a very earnest look as he answered: “You are right to ask for her, and I have told Mademoiselle de Soigné and the Little Mademoiselle that she is safe. I will tell you more than this. I could not go away from Paris leaving Vivi alone and unprotected, to starve. She has been our friend, loyal always. I shall take care of her in the country where she will be happy as the sunshine. I hope that Mother Barbette will open her heart to her, finding in her the little girl she has always wanted for her own. It was easy to procure a passport for Vivi, and she leaves the gates to-morrow at twelve——”

“But you said—I don’t understand—— How can Marie Josephine be taken for her if she has already gone?” Lisle looked up, deeply puzzled.

“Do you not see? Her friend, Georges Fardou, will not be there at noon. He comes on duty always at five. He will know nothing of Vivi’s having left and will play the game of letting her through the gates as usual. What we must hope—aye, and pray—is that he will let her little comrades through also!”

Lisle smiled. “You are you, Dian. Next you will tell me that the others at Pigeon Valley are safe!”

“That I can tell you now. Listen well. They are safe enough in a deserted barn near Calais. Champar, the cross-eyed coach driver, took them there. I was saving this to tell you at the last before we leave, in order to give you all, especially Mademoiselle de Soigné, good courage.”

“Cécile du Monde in a deserted barn!” Lisle threw back his head in the old way. Then he laughed. “We are all a set of vagabonds. Eh bien! so much the better. Rosanne,” he called to her over his shoulder, “we are tramps, all of us. Dian has more news. Cécile and Bertran and that funny Proté and Madame le Pont and Hortense are safe, hiding in a barn——”

“I know,” she interrupted. “Marie Josephine told me last night before we went to sleep. She said we must be quiet about it and not talk too much, because there was so much to plan. She told me that I must not speak at all by the gates or afterward, for fear I would give myself away, but I’ve remembered ever so many things that Vivi used to say, and when I’m dressed in tatters I think I can talk like her.” Rosanne smiled cheerfully as she spoke, but her smile faded a little, later in the day, when all her long, soft, golden hair was sheared and fell in a glittering heap on the chest. She did not cry, but there was a quiver about her mouth. Dian picked the hair up and wrapped it in a piece of satin that had covered one of the pillows they had brought down.

“It will not be safe to take it with us; but remember, Mademoiselle, nothing can happen to the hidden cellar. Some day we will come here to the chest and find it and give it to your mother in memory of the old days in France, which will be dear to her,” he said, laying the bright bundle in a corner of the chest.

They all laughed at each other, for they were the sorriest sights imaginable. Vivi lived in one of the worst alleys in Paris, and her friends were the most unkempt of all the children who played about the gates. Rosanne’s hair they discolored with a dark fluid, and they rubbed dye into her delicate face and arms and hands. She wore a tattered dress, which had a berry stain down the front, and no stockings under her broken shoes. They had not dared to let her go barefooted because of her feet betraying her. Marie Josephine was Vivi, in the torn dirty dress that had stood the journey from Pigeon Valley, her uncombed hair flapping about her face and eyes. She was tanned like a veritable gypsy, and there was no need of any more disguise for her. She was the street gamin to perfection, and she had the gift of knowing how to play a part. She had confidence, too. The experience at the house of Great-aunt Hortense had given it to her. She was full of fire and courage and the love of adventure. She was ready!

“The last of the Saint Frères! Oh, you funny boy!” She danced about her brother mockingly. “What an honest country lad you look, to be sure, does he not, Humphrey Trail?” she cried laughingly.

“He does look out of his usual way, but tha knows he is the same. I’m fashed to see how any one else could tell him to be the proud lad he is,” Humphrey answered slowly, surveying Lisle soberly.

Lisle gave him a quick smile. “Humphrey Trail, the only friend I had in Paris the day the Tuileries was sacked,” he said, and a look of friendship passed between the two.

Dian regarded Lisle gravely and then nodded. Yes, he would do. His hair was cut short and dyed also, and he wore a homespun suit and rough, awkward shoes. His coarse shirt was open at his throat, which showed brown enough from the dye, and his eyebrows were ruffed up and there was a splash of cherry juice across one of them. He was to be eating cherries as he drove through with the cart. He stood before them, a far different figure from the Lisle Saint Frère who had danced the minuet at the De Soigné ball.

“Well, it’s time to start. We are ready, all of us.” Dian spoke in his usual simple, direct way and they followed him without a word. Marie Josephine was the last to climb the ladder stairs. She looked back at the quiet, tender gloom of the old place. “Good-by,” she whispered. “Sometime we are coming back, all of us!”

They each knew what to do and there was no need for discussion. Dian and Humphrey, accompanied by Lisle, went on ahead, and the two little girls with Jean followed at a distance but kept near enough so as not to lose sight of them. In any case they were to find their way to the West Barricade.

It was dusk when they reached the gates, and the first pink glow of a spring sunset showed above the tall, gaunt forge that was busy near by making guns for the army of the revolution.

The market gardener stood by the empty cart and hailed Dian and Humphrey cheerfully. Then he looked Lisle over from head to foot. Lisle was eating cherries unconcernedly and only gave a sheepish side nod to the market gardener as he looked him over.

“He seems fond of cherries, that lad of yours,” he said to Dian. “Bien! I must go to a meeting. See that you hurry on. As it is you’ll not be at my farm before night. The shepherd here says you know the way. Here’s your pay. Good-day, citizens,”—and the stout, fussy man hurried away to wrangle at a meeting until well into the morning.

Lisle jumped on to the cart and took the reins.

“Remember, Champar is to be waiting a few rods from the gates. Leave the horse and cart under a tree by the first turn. Champar will see that they reach the market gardener’s. He has told his cousin to fetch them there. Drive as quickly as you can. Don’t talk with the soldier at the gates unless you are forced to.” Dian spoke quickly in a low tone. Lisle nodded, took the reins, and drove toward the Barricade. A soldier stopped him, but he had been told that another lad would drive through with the cart and he knew the cart well. It had red wheels, and he and Raoul had often joked about it.

“You’ll be where your friend is if you eat many of those this time of year, young citizen,” the man said.

Lisle made a face, but said nothing, holding out some cherries to the man, who accepted two or three. It was Vivi’s friend, Georges Fardou, who came on duty at half past five.

He waved his hand. “Go on with you,” he said, and Lisle drove through.

“So, citizens, you are leaving the gay city—what?” Georges Fardou examined the passports of Humphrey and Dian critically, holding his lanthorn close up to them, for it was dark under the frowning shadow of the walls. He had had many a friendly chat with both of them at odd times, there at the gates, and had often sat next to Dian at meetings of the sections.

“Yes, and the children would come just a pace with us. It’s a good hour before the gates close, and they’ve followed us about all day,” Dian said simply, nodding toward a group of three laughing children, a boy and two girls, who were throwing mud at each other, and every now and then at passers-by.

“Vivi and I are good comrades, I was with the poor father when he died,” Humphrey said, not as though he were pleading for her to go through, but just stating a fact in his quiet way.

Georges nodded. “That was a bad thing. I’d like to see all of the aristos get the hit he got, poor devil. Well, many a one is getting hit at the back of the neck, good luck to the guillotine!” He glanced at the children who had come up to them. “It’s too late for you brats to go through the gates, and it’s against orders,” he said.

Then out of her eagerness and her love for those dear to her who were in peril, Marie Josephine spoke, and her very earnestness gave her courage. It was so dark there in the shadow of the wall that only her eager eyes seemed to show in her dark face as she looked up at the guard.

“I may not see the shepherd again. He has been kinder to me than any one since my father died, him and Humphrey, the funny farmer man,” Marie Josephine spoke in a hoarse, almost harsh voice.

Georges Fardou shook his head. “It’s too late,” he said again.

“Please—Georges Fardou.” There was a world of pleading in her voice, and a tear was zigzagging down her cheek as she looked up pleadingly at Georges Fardou.

“Bien! Out with the lot of you, but mind you’re not late coming back. It will be closing time within the hour.” He unlocked the gates again as he had done for Lisle and the cart. “Good-by, citizens, and a good journey,” he called to Dian and Humphrey as they went through. “When you come back you’ll find Antoinette has gone the way of Louis. Long live the Republic!”

Then he closed the gates after them.

Chapter XXV

OUT OF THE MIST

Grigge gave the note to Anastasius Grubb and watched him as he read it. He was not thinking so much about the note, or what Anastasius would do, as he was about the man himself, for he was the oddest man that he had ever seen; his beard was so rich and full and brown, his voice so deep, so like a bellows, and his eyebrows so thick and frowning. After he had read the note he looked Grigge over as though he thought he was rather curious also. Then he destroyed the note. It was the one that Humphrey had written, and that Dian had sent, with his own, to Grigge, first by Raoul and then by Champar. Champar had gone back to Paris. Grigge was watching for him every day now, and he knew that the little party of fugitives in the forsaken barn near the city were watching, too.

Anastasius knew some French, having picked it up while carrying on his trade back and forth, and he used it now on Grigge.

“I’ll be waiting every night with a rowboat by the willow woods three miles south of the light-house station. I’ll keep hidden, and I’ll see that the schooner doesn’t bring suspicion on itself. Tell them I’ll be waiting. I’d do that and more for Humphrey Trail. We’ve played together as lads and, please Heaven, we’ll continue friends this many a year to come.” Anastasius relapsed into English at the last, but Grigge understood about the willow woods and the boat. He thought of Dian and that he would soon be seeing him and he smiled. That made him look so different that the skipper exclaimed:

“Th’art na so ugly when tha smiles; that th’art not!”

Then Grigge left him and went back through long circuitous ways through the country roads to the barn. He walked slowly and with the satisfied air of one who has at last accomplished something of moment. He had waited patiently day after day near the docks at Calais for a glimpse of the skipper of the Sandlass. Champar had been gone over a week and still there was no sign of this Anastasius Grubb, who alone, of all the owners of fishing crafts in and around the harbor, could take safely to England the little band of people who were at his mercy in Champar’s uncle’s barn, near the coast.

Grigge shuffled along in the dust that reminded him of the highway in Pigeon Valley. He thought of the croak of the frogs at night in the brook that ran along the back of the meadow behind the huts. He thought of the black bread that he had always eaten, and of the low-ceilinged, one-roomed hut that was his home. He had never meant anything to these people who awaited him in the lonely barn. Not one of them at Les Vignes, except the Little Mademoiselle, had ever given him more than a passing nod. All that he had done for them was because of Dian, but he had expected to taunt them with it, to humiliate them as they had so often, perhaps unthinkingly, humiliated him. He had thought that it would be fun to tease them, to tell them that the plan had fallen through and that there would be no possibility of the others reaching them; but he had not done any of these things, and as he walked along the quiet road that lovely May night, he felt closer to the sheltering greenness and the peaceful, drifting wind than he had ever felt before.

When he came within the region of the barn he dropped to his knees and crawled slowly through the dark underbrush. It would never do for a late passer-by on the road to Calais to see him going to the barn, which was so unusually isolated, half hidden by brush and trees. It was a remarkable hiding place.

Cécile met him, having slid back the door when she heard his faint rap. The main part of the barn was lighted by three lanthorns which hung from the ceiling, but the light was dim, and there was a thick blanket hung across the one window, so that no glimmer could reach the fields beyond.

“I delivered the letter. He’s to wait every night by the willow woods. He says this Humphrey Trail’s his best friend. He’s safe. He won’t desert you.” There was a kinder tone in Grigge’s voice, for something in the eager way they listened to him touched him.

Madame le Pont said, “Thank God.”

Cécile shut her eyes for a moment and then she said:

“They will come. I know they are safe. We had word that they were going to try to get through. That blessed cross-eyed Champar sent the message to us.” Cécile turned and put her arms about Denise who had come close to her. “We’ll see them, chérie, soon,” she whispered. Denise could only sob on Cécile’s shoulder. She at last was learning what it was to be in a revolution.

Hortense touched Grigge’s arm. “There is some supper here for you, an omelette that I’m cooking. It’s made with two of the eggs you brought us yesterday. Proté has taught me to cook it, and I want you to say it’s good!” She spoke in a friendly way, and nothing could have showed plainer than her manner how they were all learning to know one another and to help. It was necessary that they keep occupied, and Hortense and Proté had many a laugh over the former’s attempt at cooking. Bertran was the greatest problem, for he was determined to go out, and they trembled that he would in some way, in spite of his disguise, make trouble by causing suspicion. The days had gone by and they had not seen a living soul but themselves. Grigge had gone away every morning and stayed away all day, searching for Anastasius Grubb, whom at last he had found, and who had promised them his aid when the dear ones from Paris should come.

And the wayfarers—they who had come through the gates of Paris, through danger so great that it had seemed a simple thing to take one’s chance at once and without question when it came one’s way—where were they? They were thundering through the countryside, sometimes on the main highroad, but mostly through back lanes and untraveled pasture roads. The cart bumped about so much that their very heads whirled and they had to hold on just as hard as they could. They became so exhausted that they fell asleep in spite of themselves and their excitement. They ate what was given them by Champar and Dian, swallowing their food with dry lips and throats. Always there was the dread of meeting advancing outposts of the army. Once they had to hide, coach and all, for a day and part of a night in a copse in the woods.

One morning Champar turned to them, his eye cocked severely.

“If no one asks me once to-day if we’ll see the others surely, and if they really are safe in the barn, and if I am sure that Grigge was able to find Anastasius Grubb, I’ll tell you all something!”

They were all growing used to Champar, and Marie Josephine and Rosanne answered at once, “Tell us, Champar, hurry, tell us!” Lisle and Dian were walking beside the cart, and they came close to the side of it when Champar spoke, but he calmly urged his horse on and seemed suddenly lost in thought.

“What is it, Champar? Tell us!” Lisle put his hand on the side of the coach and looked up at the driver. Lisle was pale and tired and covered with dust. He had driven all night, so that Dian and Champar, who had had the brunt of the journey, could rest. “Shall we see our mother? Tell us, Champar.” Lisle’s lips quivered ever so slightly as he spoke. “Tell us,” he repeated, and there was the old imperious ring in his voice as he spoke.

So Champar told them. At noon they would meet the cart that had taken their mother out of Paris. It would be waiting for them at a farmhouse he knew well. It had had a day’s start and was lightly loaded and there had been no reason for making détours as their mother’s passport was en règle and no one would suspect Henri Berier’s sister of being an aristocrat! They would see their mother by noon that day!

Marie Josephine and Rosanne jumped out at the next hill and walked up it together. Toward the top they were joined by Lisle. Marie Josephine picked a bunch of wild lilies, putting them in the buttonhole of her jacket. Jean was on the box talking to Champar as on that night that Champar had given the two runaways a lift. Now and then the driver put his hands over his ears as Jean plied him with questions.

“It’s been so wonderful! Sometimes it seems like a terrible, interesting dream—but we won’t see Dian after we go to England.” Marie Josephine turned her face away from the others toward a sweep of golden wild lilies which gleamed like flakes of racing sunshine through the wood on their right. She did not want them to see her tears. They fell unseen on the lilies she had gathered.

“Maman! Maman! Maman!” The next moment she was screaming in an agony of joy, all her acting forgotten, all her poise and self-control lost. The coach had stopped by a lane which led from a farmhouse, and there stood a dark-eyed, slovenly woman in a faded homespun dress—her maman!

Lisle and Marie Josephine sat on each side of the comtesse inside the coach, Jean and Dian sat on the wide seat in front with Champar, who was so ashamed of the tear that splashed over his big nose that he swore under his breath and was cross to the horses. Maman could only hold Marie Josephine in her arms; nothing seemed to matter except that and the touch of Lisle’s hand on hers.

“My little dear one, my pigeon, my chérie,” she murmured over and over to Marie Josephine, holding her close to her fast-beating heart. “Darling, you came! It was you, my own little baby. I said there was something—do you remember, chérie, how I told you, there by the garden door, that there was something about you that reminded me of—of——?” Maman’s head went down over Marie Josephine’s shock of tangled locks, and she sobbed for a moment. Then she became more like her quiet, self-contained self.

It all seemed a dream, the sweet afternoon air, the haze of heat, the scent of the field lilies and early poppies. It was all a dream to Marie Josephine, for she was very tired, but she felt her mother’s arms about her and heard her mother’s endearing words, which sounded sweeter than any she had ever heard before. They had always been there, locked deep in the comtesse’s heart, but she had never known how much she wanted to say them until it was, as she had thought, too late.

They told her of Denise and the others, but they were too tired, all of them, to do more than that. There would be many a long winter evening in England when they could tell each other’s adventures. Now they must keep their thoughts on the barn, on the others, and on the blessed fishing schooner which would mean life for them.

Dian sat with his eyes closed, unmindful of Jean’s chatter with Champar. Vivi was safe. She had gone through with her own passport the morning before, fortunately unknown to her friend who had night duty at the gate, and who had so unsuspectedly let the other Vivi and her friends through the gates. He would see that the others were safe, and then he would take Vivi and Jean back to his own Pigeon Valley, to the comfort and welcoming blessing of Mother Barbette and the quiet protection of the little low-roofed house in the wood of the Les Vignes demesne. He felt sure that the little house was there, safe among its ferns and flowers, whatever may have happened to the big one. Grigge! He had great hopes and plans for Grigge!

He walked up the next hill with Lisle.

“You and Humphrey for friends! Maman safe! Dian, what have any of us done to deserve it? Dian, it isn’t for always; France is my home. Dian, I’m not forgetting that I am the last one of the Saint Frères. Whatever happens, you’ll take some of the gold for—no, you’ll never want it, but for Grigge. Tell me, Dian, is that a way of helping a little?” Lisle looked up almost entreatingly into the shepherd’s face.

“That is one way. Making Grigge your friend is a better one,” Dian answered him.

“Grigge my friend? Yes, I see that that can be,” Lisle answered.

They had reached a lane and Champar stopped his horses.

“It was out here, wasn’t it, my young citizeness, that you shoved your dog off on some farm children? What’s that!”

Something was dashing toward them down the fern-scented lane, something long and slender and grey. It was Flambeau!

They drove on, encumbered by a dog who leaped from one to the other of them in wild delight, barking so sharply that Champar swore out loud, declaring he was tired of the whole lot of them, at the same time winking back a tear and urging the horses on furiously.

“We should not take Flambeau, but, yes, we must, for he is a part of us,” exclaimed the comtesse as the dog’s warm tongue licked her face. He saw through the disguise of each one of them, as though his very love for them would not let him be deceived.

“I would never, never have left you, Flambeau, angel, if I hadn’t been a tramp girl, dearie. You are so—so——” Marie Josephine murmured.

“Such an aristo,” said Rosanne with a little choke, and just then Madame Saint Frère drew her close to her other side, and, putting an arm around each girl, she said: “Rosanne will see her mother one day. When last we heard from her she was safe in the hospital with your father. She begged us to see you safely out of the country and wrote that she and your father would join us when they could.”

“Dian will care for them both, and will see that they come to us,” answered Marie Josephine, and her mother looked at the shepherd, who sat beside Champar, with a world of confidence and gratitude in her eyes.

The lights of Calais glowed faintly through a sea mist. Champar drove very slowly. He knew the way, but the mist was thick and seemed to frighten the horses. They were near the gates that led to his uncle’s barn. It was almost time for them to alight and to walk through the field. A voice reached them suddenly, a breathless, hoarse voice which seemed to come out of the very heart of the grey night.

“Champar, quick! Listen! There isn’t a moment to lose. We’re discovered, suspected! It was that fool of a Bertran. He met a citizen who discovered he was disguised. He was followed. Then the man ran toward the town. They’ve all left the barn and gone to the willow wood. Grubb’s anchored near the shore there. Hurry! The mist will hide the cart. That’s it, jump. I’ll catch you, Little Mademoiselle. This way. Don’t let the dog bark. Yes, this way, this way——”

They were off through the mist, Grigge leading. The ground was soggy, and once Rosanne fell, but Dian caught her up and carried her. They did not speak at all, and through the silence Dian thought he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs on the highroad.

They were making slow progress. Once Flambeau barked.

“Take care, maman, see, this way. I’ll guide you.” Lisle took his mother’s arm, as he whispered this. He held fast to Marie Josephine’s arm with his other hand, and every time she tried to get away from him, he whispered authoritatively, “You are to stay right here beside me!” His desire to protect his family was so great that it made him fierce. When Marie Josephine fell against a boulder, he caught her up and carried her toward a faint, flickering white spot, which was the light at the bow of Anastasius Grubb’s rowboat.

Grubb’s deep voice boomed softly through the still air.

“They’re coming. One of my men from the schooner has been on the ground, listening. It means hurry. He’s heard horses’ hoofs. Here you, boy, I’ll take the little girl. Humphrey, you—Good! That’s it. You help the woman, and you, shepherd, take the boy Grigge and get away as quick as you can, or your lives will not be worth a ha’penny.”

The water splashed about them as they waded to the rowboat, which was resting in shallow water. Strong arms caught them, and in little more than a breath they were seated close together, Denise with her mother’s arms about her, Hortense and Marie Josephine and Cécile huddled together in a tense embrace. The schooner waited for them just beyond, through the mist.

There had been no time to say good-by. Marie Josephine dashed the tears from her eyes, leaning forward.

“Dian,” she called softly. “Dian, Dian, Dian!” Then she took the faded gold flower, which she had gathered on the hill road a few hours before, from the belt of her dirty smock and threw it toward the shore. It fell at Dian’s feet, where he stood with Jean and Grigge close beside him.

“You will come back, all of you, Little Mademoiselle,” he said. In his eyes was the light which they all knew so well; not even the mist could hide it. He stooped and picked up the flower. It was a lily of France.

Transcriber’s notes

1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors; retained non-standard spellings and dialect, especially French expressions.

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Table of Contents

- RED CAPS AND LILIES
- Chapter I IN THE SCHOOLROOM
- Chapter II MARIE JOSEPHINE’S SECRET
- Chapter III THE BAL MASQUÉ
- Chapter IV JEAN
- Chapter V INSIDE THE COACH
- Chapter VI AUGUST TENTH, 1792
- Chapter VII AT LES VIGNES
- Chapter VIII HUMPHREY TRAIL
- Chapter IX DIAN
- Chapter X IN THE SNOWSTORM
- Chapter XI “THA MUST NOT CRY OUT, LASS”
- Chapter XII DIAN MAKES A FRIEND
- Chapter XIII PIGEON VALLEY AGAIN
- Chapter XIV WHAT LISLE PUT IN THE CAKE

- Chapter XV “SHE IS LIKE OUR LITTLE MADEMOISELLE”

- Chapter XVI MARIE JOSEPHINE IS READY

- Chapter XVII AT THE OLD GREEN MILL-INN

- Chapter XVIII VIVI SEES THE OTHER SIDE OF THE GATES

- Chapter XIX IN THE BAKERY SHOP AND OUT OF IT

- Chapter XX LISLE SEEKS ADVENTURE
- Chapter XXI IN THE HIDDEN CELLAR
- Chapter XXII CHAMPAR TO THE RESCUE

- Chapter XXIII IN GREAT-AUNT HORTENSE’S HOUSE

- Chapter XXIV THROUGH THE GATES
- Chapter XXV OUT OF THE MIST
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE