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

ILLUSTRATIONS

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.